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THE 


DOLLIVER ROMi^NCE 


AND KINDRED TALES 


BY 

/ 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
EiUerBtlie IPrees, Camiiritip 


MDCCCC 


91439 


L(b*'«r-v of Conpre«aj 


I wo Cunts RtCtlVtD 

DEC 301900 

Copyright entry 

DEC /o 1900 

SECOND COPY 


Oeiivered to 

ORDEK DIVISION 

DEC £4 1900 


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hd ' 


COPYRIGHT, 1864, BY TICKNOR & FIELDS 
COPYRIGHT, 1871 AND I 876, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
COPYRIGHT, 1882 AND 1899, BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP 
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFUN & CO. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


LC Control Number 



2003 536508 













TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY NOTE ..... ix 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

A SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE . I 
ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE ^S 
ANOTHER FRAGMENT OF THE DOLLIVER RO¬ 
MANCE ....... 42 

SEPTIMIUS FELTON ; OR, THE ELIXIR OF LIFE 69 

appendix: the ancestral footstep; outlines 

OF an ENGLISH ROMANCE . . . 3*9 








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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Brooding in his study (page 85) A. /. Keller 

Frontispiece 

Vignette on Engraved Title-page : He and 

HIS DEAD WERE ALONE . . A, 1. Keller . ' 

Great-grandpapa and Pansie E. Boyd Smith 
“What have you done?” . A, L Keller , 

His hand on the slender arm A. 1. Keller . 

“ Is YOUR FRIEND ILL ? ” . . A, L Keller . 


12 

322 

358 

384 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

The order preserved in this volume is not 
the order of time. The Dolliver Romance^ a 
fragment, was the latest of Hawthorne’s writ¬ 
ings, and this unfinished tale was laid on his 
coffin when it was in the church before burial; 
but it represents the final form taken by an idea 
which for years had been haunting the author’s 
brain. It would be strange indeed if one who 
brooded, as Hawthorne did, over the great 
mysteries of life and death should have been 
incurious respecting the greatest of all myste¬ 
ries of human nature, that which concerns the 
perpetuity of life itself. “ Dr. Heidegger’s Ex¬ 
periment ” and “ The Virtuoso’s Collection ” 
illustrate the manner in which he dwelt on the 
thought, and his journals contain entries which 
point in the same direction, as when after a 
lovely warm Sunday in September, 1843, 
writes : Such a day is the promise of a blissful 
eternity. Our Creator would never have made 
such weather, and given us the deep heart to 
enjoy it, above and beyond all thought, if he 
had not meant us to be immortal; ” and again 
in his English journal: “ God himself cannot 
ix 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


compensate us for being born for any period 
short of eternity. All the misery endured here 
constitutes a claim for another life, and still more 
all the happiness ; because all true happiness in¬ 
volves something more than the earth owns, 
and needs something more than a mortal capa¬ 
city for the enjoyment of it.*' 

Mingling with this illustration of the theme 
of immortality was the grim fancy of a bloody 
footprint upon the threshold. In 1850 he had 
jotted down in his Note-Book the suggestion; 
“ The print in blood of a naked foot to be 
traced through the street of a town.” It is not 
likely that Hawthorne forgot this notion when, 
in 1855, heard in England at SmithelEs Hall 
the legend which he thus set down. 

‘‘ The peculiarity of this house is what is 
called ‘ The Bloody Footstep.’ In the time 
of Bloody Mary, a Protestant clergyman — 
George Marsh, by name — was examined be¬ 
fore the then proprietor of the Hall, Sir Roger 
Barton, I think, and committed to prison for 
his heretical opinions, and was ultimately burned 
at the stake. As his guards were conducting 
him from the justice room, through the stone- 
paved passage that leads from front to rear of 
Smithell’s Hall, he stamped his foot upon one 
of the flagstones in earnest protestation against 
the wrong which he was undergoing. The foot, 
as some say, left a bloody mark in the stone; 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


others have it, that the stone yielded like wax 
under his foot, and that there has been a shallow 
cavity ever since. This miraculous footprint 

is still extant; and Mrs.-showed it to me 

before her husband took me round the estate. 
It is almost at the threshold of the door open¬ 
ing from the rear of the house, a stone two or 
three feet square, set among similar ones, that 
seem to have been worn by the tread of many 
generations. The footprint is a dark brown 
stain in the smooth gray surface of the flagstone; 
and, looking sidelong at it, there is a shallow 

cavity perceptible, which Mrs.-accounted 

for as having been worn by people setting their 
feet just on this place, so as to tread the very 
spot where the martyr wrought the miracle. 
The mark is longer than any mortal foot, as if 
caused by sliding along the stone, rather than 
sinking into it; and it might be supposed to 
have been made by a pointed shoe, being blunt 
at the heel, and decreasing towards the toe. 
The blood-stained version of the. story is more 
consistent with the appearance of the mark than 
the imprint would be; for if the martyr’s blood 
oozed out through his shoe and stocking, it 
might have made his foot slide along the stone, 
and thus have lengthened the shape. Of course 
it is all a humbug, — a darker vein cropping 
up through the gray flagstone; but it is probably 
a fact, and, for aught I know, may be found in 
xi 




THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


Fox’s Book of Martyrs, that George Marsh 
underwent an examination in this house; and 
the tradition may have connected itself with the 
stone within a short time after the martyrdom; 
or, perhaps, when the old persecuting knight 
departed this life, and Bloody Mary was also 
dead, people who had stood at a little distance 
from the Hall door, and had seen George 
Marsh lift his hand and stamp his foot just at 
this spot, — perhaps they remembered this ac¬ 
tion and gesture, and really believed that Provi¬ 
dence had thus made an indelible record of it on 
the stone ; although the very stone and the very 
mark might have lain there at the threshold 
hundreds of years before. But, even if it had 
been always there, the footprint might, after the 
fact, be looked upon as a prophecy, from the 
time when the foundation of the old house was 
laid, that a holy and persecuted man should one 
day set his foot here, on the way that was to 
lead him to the stake. At any rate, the legend 
is a good one.” 

In 1858, just before leaving England for the 
continent, he began to sketch the outline of a 
romance, based upon the attempt of an Ameri¬ 
can to lay claim to an estate in England, the 
manor house of which was marked in this way. 
He did not foresee that the subject would be 
pushed aside by the more insistent story of 'The 
Marble Faun^ and he made notes from time to 
xii 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


time before he abandoned the project, and these 
notes are reprinted in the present volume as an 
appendix, under the title The Ancestral Foot¬ 
step, 

The dates prefixed to the several passages 
indicate the progress he made in this outline; 
they show also that though he was pretty indus¬ 
trious, he gave himself to the task only for about 
six weeks. Then, undoubtedly, his new inter¬ 
ests and observations swallowed him up to the 
neglect of this venture. ‘‘Although,” as Mr. 
Lathrop says, “ the sketch is cast in the form 
of a regular narrative, one or two gaps occur, 
indicating that the author had thought out cer¬ 
tain points which he then took for granted with¬ 
out making note of them. Brief scenes, pas¬ 
sages of conversation and of narration, follow 
one another after the manner of a finished story, 
alternating with synopses of the plot, and que¬ 
ries concerning particulars that needed further 
study; confidences of the romancer to himself 
which form certainly a valuable contribution to 
literary history. The manuscript closes with a 
rapid sketch of the conclusion, and the way in 
which it is to be executed. Succinctly, what we 
have here is a romance in embryo; one, more¬ 
over, that never attained to a viable stature and 
constitution.” 

It was not till his return to America in i86i 
that Hawthorne once more resumed the theme, 
xiii 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

He was writing in his home, “ The Wayside,’* 
at Concord, and recalled no doubt what he had 
himself written to G. W. Curtis in 1852: I 
know nothing of the history of the house, ex¬ 
cept Thoreau’s telling me that it was inhabited 
a generation ago by a man who believed he 
should never die.” Some time between the re¬ 
turn to America and the end of 1863 he had 
made two drafts of an attempted romance, one. 
Dr, Grimshawe"5 Secret^ edited by his son Ju¬ 
lian in 1882, the other Septimius Felt on ^ recov¬ 
ered by his daughter Una, and printed as a serial 
in 'Fhe Atlantic Monthly in 1872, carrying with 
it, when published in book form, the following 
prefatory note, signed by Una Hawthorne. 

The following story is the last written by 
my father. It is printed as it was found among 
his manuscripts. I believe it is a striking speci¬ 
men of the peculiarities and charm of his style, 
and that it will have an added interest for bro¬ 
ther artists, and for those who care to study the 
method of his composition, from the mere fact 
of its not having received his final revision. In 
any case, I feel sure that the retention of the 
passages within brackets [e, g, p. 101), which 
show how my father intended to amplify some 
of the descriptions and develop more fully one 
or two of the character studies, will not be re¬ 
gretted by appreciative readers. My earnest 
thanks are due to Mr. Robert Browning for his 
xiv 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


kind assistance and advice in Interpreting the 
manuscript, otherwise so difficult to me/* 
Neither of these romances, Septimius Felton 
nor Dr. Grimshawe*s Secret^ had satisfied Haw¬ 
thorne sufficiently to justify him in giving them 
to the world, and he made a fresh start, though 
at a time when half aware of it himself, he was 
slipping down the final earthly way. The Dolli- 
ver Romance therefore made slow progress, and 
somewhat against his better judgment, he con¬ 
sented to an arrangement by which it should 
be published serially in The Atlantic, He wrote 
to Mr. Fields, the editor of the magazine: — 

“ I don’t see much probability of my having 
the first chapter of the Romance ready so soon 
as you want it. There are two or three chap¬ 
ters ready to be written, but I am not yet robust 
enough to begin, and I feel as if I should never 
carry it through.” 

The presentiment proved to be only too well 
founded. He had previously written : — 

‘‘ There is something preternatural in my re¬ 
luctance to begin. I linger at the threshold, 
and have a perception of very disagreeable 
phantasms to be encountered if I enter. I wish 
God had given me the faculty of writing a sun¬ 
shiny book.” 

And again, in November, he says : “ I fore¬ 
see that there is little probability of my getting 
the first chapter ready by the 15th, although I 

XV 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


have a resolute purpose to write it by the end 
of the month.” He did indeed send it by that 
time, but it began to be apparent in January 
that he could not go on. 

Seriously,” he says, in one letter, my 
mind has, for the present, lost its temper and 
its fine edge, and I have an instinct that I had 
better keep quiet. Perhaps I shall have a new 
spirit of vigor if I wait quietly for it; perhaps 
not.” In another: hardly know what to 

say to the public about this abortive Romance, 
though I know pretty well what the case will 
be. I shall never finish it. ... I cannot finish 
it unless a great change comes over me; and if 
I make too great an effort to do so, it will be 
my death.” 

Hawthorne died in the night between the 
i8th and 19th of May, 1864. The first chap¬ 
ter of The Dolliver Romance was published in The 
Atlantic for July of that year, and “ Another 
Scene from the Dolliver Romance ” in Janu¬ 
ary, 1865. The third fragment which follows 
in this reissue is separated by a gap which there 
is no means of filling. Mr. Lathrop tells us : 

“ Hawthorne had purposed prefixing a sketch 
of Thoreau, ‘ because, from a tradition which he 
told me about this house of mine, I got the 
idea of a deathless man, which is now taking a 
shape very different from the original one.* . . . 
With the plan respecting Thoreau he combined 
xvi 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE 


the idea of writing an autobiographical preface, 
wherein The Wayside was to be described, after 
the manner of his Introduction to the Mosses 
from an Old Manse; but, so far as is known, 
nothing of this was ever actually committed to 
paper.” 






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THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


A SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER 
ROMANCE 

D r. DOLLIVER, a worthy personage of 
extreme antiquity, was aroused rather 
prematurely, one summer morning, by 
the shouts of the child Pansie, in an adjoining 
chamber, summoning old Martha (who per¬ 
formed the duties of nurse, housekeeper, and 
kitchen maid, in the Doctor’s establishment) to 
take up her little ladyship and dress her. The 
old gentleman woke with more than his custom¬ 
ary alacrity, and, after taking a moment to gather 
his wits about him, pulled aside the faded mo¬ 
reen curtains of his ancient bed, and thrust his 
head into a beam of sunshine that caused him 
to wink and withdraw it again. This transitory 
glimpse of good Dr. Dolliver showed a flannel 
nightcap, fringed round with stray locks of sil¬ 
very white hair, and surmounting a meagre and 
duskily yellow visage, which was crossed and 
crisscrossed with a record of his long life in 
wrinkles, faithfully written, no doubt, but with 
such cramped chirography of Father Time that 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

the purport was illegible. It seemed hardly 
worth while for the patriarch to get out of bed 
any more, and bring his forlorn shadow into the 
summer day that was made for younger folks. 
The Doctor, however, was by no means of that 
opinion, being considerably encouraged towards 
the toil of living twenty-four hours longer by the 
comparative ease with which he found himself 
going through the usually painful process of be¬ 
stirring his rusty joints (stiffened by the very rest 
and sleep that should have made them pliable) 
and putting them in a condition to bear his 
weight upon the floor. Nor was he absolutely 
disheartened by the idea of those tonsorial, ablu¬ 
tionary, and personally decorative labors which 
are apt to become so intolerably irksome to an 
old gentleman, after performing them daily and 
daily for fifty, sixty, or seventy years, and finding 
them still as immitigably recurrent as at first. 
Dr. Dolliver could nowise account for this happy 
condition of his spirits and physical energies, 
until he remembered taking an experimental sip 
of a certain cordial which was long ago prepared 
by his grandson, and carefully sealed up in a 
bottle, and had been reposited in a dark closet, 
among a parcel of effete medicines, ever since 
that gifted young man's death. 

It may have wrought effect upon me,” 
thought the Doctor, shaking his head as he lifted 
it again from the pillow. ‘‘It may be so; for 
2 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


poor Edward oftentimes instilled a strange effi¬ 
cacy into his perilous drugs. But I will rather 
believe it to be the operation of God's mercy, 
which may have temporarily invigorated my fee¬ 
ble age for little Pansie's sake." 

A twinge of his familiar rheumatism, as he put 
his foot out of’bed, taught him that he must not 
reckon too confidently upon even a day's respite 
from the intrusive family of aches and infirmi¬ 
ties, which, with their proverbial fidelity to at¬ 
tachments once formed, had long been the clos¬ 
est acquaintances that the poor old gentleman 
had in the world. Nevertheless, he fancied the 
twinge a little less poignant than those of yester¬ 
day ; and, moreover, after stinging him pretty 
smartly, it passed gradually off with a thrill, 
which, in its latter stages, grew to be almost 
agreeable. Pain is but pleasure too strongly 
emphasized. With cautious movements, and 
only a groan or two, the good Doctor transferred 
himself from the bed to the floor, where he stood 
awhile, gazing from one piece of quaint furni¬ 
ture to another (such as stiff-backed Mayflower 
chairs, an oaken chest of drawers carved cun¬ 
ningly with shapes of animals and wreaths of 
foliage, a table with multitudinous legs, a family 
record in faded embroidery, a shelf of black- 
bound books, a dirty heap of gallipots and phials 
in a dim corner), — gazing at these things, and 
steadying himself by the bedpost, while his inert 
3 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


brain, still partially benumbed with sleep, came 
slowly into accordance with the realities about 
him. The object which most helped to bring 
Dr. Dolliver completely to his waking percep¬ 
tions was one that common observers might sup¬ 
pose to have been snatched bodily out of his 
dreams. The same sunbeam that had dazzled 
the Doctor between the bed curtains gleamed 
on the weather-beaten gilding which had once 
adorned this mysterious symbol, and showed it 
to be an enormous serpent, twining round a 
wooden post, and reaching quite from the floor 
of the chamber to its ceiling. 

It was evidently a thing that could boast of 
considerable antiquity, the dry rot having eaten 
out its eyes and gnawed away the tip of its tail; 
and it must have stood long exposed to the at¬ 
mosphere, for a kind of gray moss had partially 
overspread its tarnished gilt surface, and a swal¬ 
low, or other familiar little bird, in some by¬ 
gone summer, seemed to have built its nest in 
the yawning and exaggerated mouth. It looked 
like a kind of Manichean idol, which might 
have been elevated on a pedestal for a century 
or so, enjoying the worship of its votaries in the 
open air, until the impious sect perished from 
among men, — all save old Dr. Dolliver, who 
had setup the monster in his bedchamber for the 
convenience of private devotion. But we are 
unpardonable in suggesting such a fantasy to 
4 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

the prejudice of our venerable friend, knowing 
him to have been as pious and upright a Chris¬ 
tian, and with as little of the serpent in his char¬ 
acter, as ever came of Puritan lineage. Not to 
make a further mystery about a very simple 
matter, this bedimmed and rotten reptile was 
once the medical emblem or apothecary's sign 
of the famous Dr. Swinnerton, who practised 
physic in the earlier days of New England, when 
a head of iEsculapius or Hippocrates would 
have vexed the souls of the righteous as savor¬ 
ing of heathendom. The ancient dispenser of 
drugs had therefore set up an image of the 
Brazen Serpent, and followed his business for 
many years with great credit, under this Scrip¬ 
tural device; and Dr. Dolliver, being the ap¬ 
prentice, pupil, and humble friend of the learned 
Swinnerton's old age, had inherited the sym¬ 
bolic snake and much other valuable property 
by his bequest. 

While the patriarch was putting on his small¬ 
clothes, he took care to stand in the parallelo¬ 
gram of bright sunshine that fell upon the un¬ 
carpeted floor. The summer warmth was very 
genial to his system, and yet made him shiver; 
his wintry veins rejoiced at it, though the reviv¬ 
ing blood tingled through them with a half¬ 
painful and only half-pleasurable titillation. For 
the first few moments after creeping out of bed, he 
kept his back to the sunny window, and seemed 
5 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


mysteriously shy of glancing thitherward ; but, 
as the June fervor pervaded him more and 
more thoroughly, he turned bravely about, and 
looked forth at a burial ground on the corner of 
which he dwelt. There lay many an old ac¬ 
quaintance, who had gone to sleep with the fla¬ 
vor of Dr. Dolliver’s tinctures and powders upon 
his tongue ; it was the patient’s final bitter taste 
of this world, and perhaps doomed to be a re¬ 
collected nauseousness in the next. Yesterday, 
in the chill of his forlorn old age, the Doctor 
expected soon to stretch out his weary bones 
among that quiet community, and might scarcely 
have shrunk from the prospect on his own ac¬ 
count, except, indeed, that he dreamily mixed 
up the infirmities of his present condition with 
the repose of the approaching one, being haunted 
by a notion that the damp earth, under the grass 
and dandelions, must needs be pernicious for 
his cough and his rheumatism. But, this morn¬ 
ing, the cheerful sunbeams, or the mere taste of 
his grandson’s cordial that he had taken at bed¬ 
time, or the fitful vigor that often sports irre¬ 
verently with aged people, had caused an un¬ 
frozen drop of youthfulness, somewhere within 
him, to expand. 

Hem ! ahem ! ” quoth the Doctor, hoping 
with one effort to clear his throat of the dregs 
of a ten years’ cough. ‘‘ Matters are not so far 
gone with me as I thought. I have known 
6 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

mighty sensible men, when only a little age- 
stricken or otherwise out of sorts, to die of mere 
faint-heartedness, a great deal sooner than they 
need/' 

He shook his silvery head at his own image 
in the looking-glass, as if to impress the apo¬ 
thegm on that shadowy representative of him¬ 
self ; and, for his part, he determined to pluck 
up a spirit and live as long as he possibly could, 
if it were only for the sake of little Pansie, who 
stood as close to one extremity of human life 
as her great-grandfather to the other. This child 
of three years old occupied all the unfossilized 
portion of Dr. Dolliver's heart. Every other 
interest that he formerly had, and the entire 
confraternity of persons whom he once loved, 
had long ago departed; and the poor Doctor 
could not follow them, because the grasp of 
Pansie's baby fingers held him back. 

So he crammed a great silver watch into his 
fob, and drew on a patchwork morning gown of 
an ancient fashion. Its original material was said 
to have been the embroidered front of his own 
wedding waistcoat and the silken skirt of his 
wife's bridal attire, which his eldest granddaugh¬ 
ter had taken from the carved chest of drawers, 
after poor Bessie, the beloved of his youth, had 
been half a century in the grave. Throughout 
many of the intervening years, as the garment 
got ragged, the spinsters of the old man's family 
7 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


had quilted their duty and affection into it in 
the shape of patches upon patches, rose color, 
crimson, blue, violet, and green, and then (as 
their hopes faded, and their life kept growing 
shadier, and their attire took a sombre hue) 
sober gray and great fragments of funereal black, 
until the Doctor could revive the memory of 
most things that had befallen him by looking 
at his patchwork gown, as it hung upon a chair. 
And now it was ragged again, and all the fingers 
that should have mended it were cold. It had 
an Eastern fragrance, too, a smell of drugs, 
strong-scented herbs, and spicy gums, gathered 
from the many potent infusions that had from 
time to time been spilt over it; so that, snuffing 
him afar off, you might have taken Dr. Dolliver 
for a mummy, and could hardly have been un¬ 
deceived by his shrunken and torpid aspect, as 
he crept nearer. 

Wrapt in his odorous and many-colored robe, 
he took staff in hand, and moved pretty vigor¬ 
ously to the head of the staircase. As it was 
somewhat steep, and but dimly lighted, he began 
cautiously to descend, putting his left hand on 
the banister, and poking down his long stick to 
assist him in making sure of the successive 
steps; and thus he became a living illustration 
of the accuracy of Scripture, where it describes 
the aged as being afraid of that which is high,” 
— a truth that is often found to have a sadder 
8 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


purport than its external one. Halfway to the 
bottom, however, the Doctor heard the impa¬ 
tient and authoritative tones of little Pansie — 
Queen Pansie, as she might fairly have been 
styled, in reference to her position in the house¬ 
hold — calling amain for grandpapa and break¬ 
fast. He was startled into such perilous activity 
by the summons that his heels slid on the stairs, 
the slippers were shuffled off his feet, and he 
saved himself from a tumble only by quickening 
his pace and coming down at almost a run. 

“ Mercy on my poor old bones ! ’’ mentally 
exclaimed the Doctor, fancying himself fractured 
in fifty places. ‘‘ Some of them are broken, 
surely, and, methinks, my heart has leaped out 
of my mouth ! What! all right ? Well, well! 
but Providence is kinder to me than I deserve, 
prancing down this steep staircase like a kid of 
three months old ! 

He bent stiffly to gather up his slippers and 
fallen staff; and meanwhile Pansie had heard the 
tumult of her great-grandfather's descent, and 
was pounding against the door of the breakfast 
room in her haste to come at him. The Doctor 
opened it, and there she stood, a rather pale and 
large-eyed little thing, quaint in her aspect, as 
might well be the case with a motherless child, 
dwelling in an uncheerful house, with no other 
playmates than a decrepit old man and a kitten, 
and no better atmosphere within doors than the 
9 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


odor of decayed apothecary’s stuff, nor gayer 
neighborhood than that of the adjacent burial 
ground, where all her relatives, from her great¬ 
grandmother downward, lay calling to her, 

Pansie, Pansie, it is bedtime ! ” even in the 
prime of the summer morning. For those dead 
women folk, especially her mother and the 
whole row of maiden aunts and grandaunts, 
could not but be anxious about the child, know¬ 
ing that little Pansie would be far safer under a 
tuft of dandelions than if left alone, as she soon 
must be, in this difficult and deceitful world. 

Yet, in spite of the lack of damask roses in 
her cheeks, she seemed a healthy child, and cer¬ 
tainly showed great capacity of energetic move¬ 
ment in the impulsive capers with which she wel¬ 
comed her venerable progenitor. She shouted 
out her satisfaction, moreover (as her custom 
was, having never had any oversensitive audi¬ 
tors about her to tame down her voice), till even 
the Doctor’s dull ears were full of the clamor. 

“ Pansie, darling,” said Dr. Dolliver cheerily, 
patting her brown hair with his tremulous fin¬ 
gers, “ thou hast put some of thine own friski¬ 
ness into poor old grandfather, this fine morning! 
Dost know, child, that he came near breaking 
his neck downstairs at the sound of thy voice ? 
What wouldst thou have done then, little 
Pansie ? ” 

“ Kiss poor grandpapa and make him well! ” 
10 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


answered the childj remembering the Doctor’s 
own mode of cure in similar mishaps to herself. 

‘‘ It shall do poor grandpapa good ! ” she added, 
putting up her mouth to apply the remedy. 

“ Ah, little one, thou hast greater faith in thy 
medicines than ever I had in my»drugs,” replied 
the patriarch, with a giggle, surprised and de¬ 
lighted at his own readiness of response. But 
the kiss is good for my feeble old heart, Pansie, 
though it might do little to mend a broken 
neck; so give grandpapa another dose, and let ' 
us to breakfast.” 

In this merry humor they sat down to the 
table, great-grandpapa and Pansie side by side, 
and the kitten, as soon appeared, making a third 
in the party. First, she showed her mottled 
head out of Pansie’s lap, delicately sipping milk 
from the child’s basin without rebuke ; then she 
took post on the old gentleman’s shoulder, purr¬ 
ing like a spinning wheel, trying her claws in 
the wadding of his dressing gown, and still more 
impressively reminding him of her presence 
by putting out a paw to intercept a warmed- 
over morsel of yesterday’s chicken on its way to 
the Doctor’s mouth. After skilfully achieving 
this feat, she scrambled down upon the break¬ 
fast table and began to wash her face and hands. 
Evidently, these companions were all three on 
intimate terms, as was natural enough, since a 
great many childish impulses were softly creep- 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


ing back on the simple-minded old man ; inso¬ 
much that, if no worldly necessities nor painful 
infirmity had disturbed him, his remnant of life 
might have been as cheaply and cheerily enjoyed 
as the early playtime of the kitten and the child. 
Old Dr. Dolliver and his great-granddaughter 
(a ponderous title, which seemed quite to over¬ 
whelm the tiny figure of Pansie) had met one 
another at the two extremities of the life circle : 
her sunrise served him for a sunset, illuminating 
his locks of silver and hers of golden brown 
with a homogeneous shimmer of twinkling 
light. 

Little Pansie was the one earthly creature that 
inherited a drop of the Dolliver blood. The 
Doctor’s only child, poor Bessie’s offspring, had 
died the better part of a hundred years before, 
and his grandchildren, a numerous and dimly 
remembered brood, had vanished along his 
weary track in their youth, maturity, or incipient 
age, till, hardly knowing how it had all hap¬ 
pened, he found himself tottering onward with 
an infant’s small fingers in his nerveless grasp. 
So mistily did his dead progeny come and go in 
the patriarch’s decayed recollection, that this 
solitary child represented for him the successive 
babyhoods of the many that had gone before. 
The emotions of his early paternity came back 
to him. She seemed the baby of a past age 
oftener than she seemed Pansie. A whole family 
12 


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SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

of grandaunts (one of whom had perished in 
her cradle, never so mature as Pansie now, an¬ 
other in her virgin bloom, another in autumnal 
maidenhood, yellow and shrivelled, with vin¬ 
egar in her blood, and still another, a forlorn 
widow, whose grief outlasted even its vitality, 
and grew to be merely a torpid habit, and was 
saddest then), — all their hitherto forgotten fea¬ 
tures peeped through the face of the great¬ 
grandchild, and their long inaudible voices 
sobbed, shouted, or laughed in her familiar 
tones. But it often happened to Dr. Dolliver, 
while frolicking amid this throng of ghosts, 
where the one reality looked no more vivid than 
its shadowy sisters, — it often happened that his 
eyes filled with tears at a sudden perception of 
what a sad and poverty-stricken old man he 
was, already remote from his own generation, 
and bound to stray further onward as the sole 
playmate and protector of a child ! 

As Dr. Dolliver, in spite of his advanced 
epoch of life, is likely to remain a considerable 
time longer upon our hands, we deem it expedi¬ 
ent to give a brief sketch of his position, in order 
that the story may get onward with the greater 
freedom when he rises from the breakfast table. 
Deeming it a matter of courtesy, we have allowed 
him the honorary title of Doctor, as did all his 
townspeople and contemporaries, except, per¬ 
haps, one or two formal old physicians, stingy 

13 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


of civil phrases and overjealous of their own 
professional dignity. Nevertheless, these crusty 
graduates were technically right in excluding 
Dr. Dolliver from their fraternity. He had 
never received the degree of any medical school, 
nor (save it might be for the cure of a tooth¬ 
ache, or a child's rash, or a whitlow on a seam¬ 
stress's finger, or some such trifling malady) had 
he ever been even a practitioner of the awful 
science with which his popular designation con¬ 
nected him. Our old friend, in short, even at his 
highest social elevation, claimed to be nothing 
more than an apothecary, and, in these later 
and far less prosperous days, scarcely so much. 
Since the death of his last surviving grandson 
(Pansie's father, whom he had instructed in all 
the mysteries of his science, and who, being dis¬ 
tinguished by an experimental and inventive 
tendency, was generally believed to have poi¬ 
soned himself with an infallible panacea of his 
own distillation), — since that final bereavement. 
Dr. Dolliver's once pretty flourishing business 
had lamentably declined. After a few months 
of unavailing struggle, he found it expedient to 
take down the Brazen Serpent from the position 
to which Dr. Swinnerton had originally elevated 
it, in front of his shop in the main street, and to 
retire to his private dwelling, situated in a by¬ 
lane and on the edge of a burial ground. 

This house, as well as the Brazen Serpent, 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

some old medical books, and a drawer full of 
manuscripts, had come to him by the legacy of 
Dr. Swinnerton. The dreariness of the locality 
had been of small importance to our friend in 
his young manhood, when he first led his fair 
wife over the threshold, and so long as neither 
of them had any kinship with the human dust 
that rose into little hillocks, and still kept ac¬ 
cumulating beneath their window. But, too 
soon afterwards, when poor Bessie herself had 
gone early to rest there, it is probable that an 
influence from her grave may have prema¬ 
turely calmed and depressed her widowed hus¬ 
band, taking away much of the energy from what 
should have been the most active portion of 
his life. Thus he never grew rich. His thrifty 
townsmen used to tell him, that, in any other 
man’s hands. Dr. Swinnerton’s Brazen Serpent 
(meaning, I presume, the inherited credit and 
good will of that old worthy’s trade) would 
need but ten years’ time to transmute its brass 
into gold. In Dr. Dolliver’s keeping, as we 
have seen, the inauspicious symbol lost the 
greater part of what superficial gilding it origi¬ 
nally had. Matters had not mended with him 
in more advanced life, after he had deposited a 
further and further portion of his heart and its 
affections in each successive one of a long row 
of kindred graves ; and as he stood over the 
last of them, holding Pansie by the hand and 

15 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


looking down upon the coffin of his grandson, 
it is no wonder that the old man wept, partly for 
those gone before, but not so bitterly as for the 
little one that stayed behind. Why had not 
God taken her with the rest? And then, so 
hopeless as he was, so destitute of possibilities 
of good, his weary frame, his decrepit bones, 
his dried-up heart, might have crumbled into 
dust at once, and have been scattered by the 
next wind over all the heaps of earth that were 
akin to him. 

This intensity of desolation, however, was of 
too positive a character to be long sustained by 
a person of Dr. Dolliver's original gentleness 
and simplicity, and now so completely tamed 
by age and misfortune. Even before he turned 
away from the grave, he grew conscious of a 
slightly cheering and invigorating effect from 
the tight grasp of the child’s warm little hand. 
Feeble as he was, she seemed to adopt him will¬ 
ingly for her protector. And the Doctor never 
afterwards shrank from his duty nor quailed 
beneath it, but bore himself like a man, striving, 
amid the sloth of age and the breaking up of 
intellect, to earn the competency which he had 
failed to accumulate even in his most vigorous 
days. 

To the extent of securing a present sub¬ 
sistence for Pansie and himself, he was success¬ 
ful. After his son’s death, when the Brazen 

i6 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

Serpent fell into popular disrepute, a small 
share of tenacious patronage followed the old 
man into his retirement. In his prime, he had 
been allowed to possess more skill than usu¬ 
ally fell to the share of a Colonial apothecary, 
having been regularly apprenticed to Dr. Swin- 
nerton, who, throughout his long practice, was 
accustomed personally to concoct the medi¬ 
cines which he prescribed and dispensed. It 
was believed, indeed, that the ancient physician 
had learned the art at the world-famous drug 
manufactory of Apothecary's Hall, in London, 
and, as some people half malignly whispered, 
had perfected himself under masters more sub¬ 
tle than were to be found even there. Unques¬ 
tionably, in many critical cases he was known 
to have employed remedies of mysterious com¬ 
position and dangerous potency, which, in less 
skilful hands, would have been more likely to 
kill than cure. He would willingly, it is said, 
have taught his apprentice the secrets of these 
prescriptions, but the latter, being of a timid 
character and delicate conscience, had shrunk 
from acquaintance with them. It was probably 
as the result of the same scrupulosity that Dr. 
Dolliver had always declined to enter the med¬ 
ical profession, in which his old instructor had 
set him such heroic examples of adventurous 
dealing with matters of life and'death. Never¬ 
theless, the aromatic fragrance, so to speak, of 

17 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


the learned Swinnerton's reputation had clung 
to our friend through life; and there were elab¬ 
orate preparations in the pharmacopoeia of that 
day, requiring such minute skill and conscien¬ 
tious fidelity in the concocter that the physicians 
were still glad to confide them to one in whom 
these qualities were so evident. 

Moreover, the grandmothers of the commu¬ 
nity were kind to him, and mindful of his 
perfumes, his rose water, his cosmetics, tooth 
powders, pomanders, and pomades, the scented 
memory of which lingered about their toilet 
tables, or came faintly back from the days when 
they were beautiful. Among this class of cus¬ 
tomers there was still a demand for certain 
comfortable little nostrums (delicately sweet 
and pungent to the taste, cheering to the spirits, 
and fragrant in the breath), the proper distil¬ 
lation of which was the airiest secret that the 
mystic Swinnerton had left behind him. And, 
besides, these old ladies had always liked the 
manners of Dr. Dolliver, and used to speak of 
his gentle courtesy behind the counter as hav¬ 
ing positively been something to admire; though 
of later years, an unrefined and almost rustic 
simplicity, such as belonged to his humble an¬ 
cestors, appeared to have taken possession of 
him, as it often does of prettily mannered men 
in their late decay. 

But it resulted from all these favorable circum- 

i8 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


stances that the Doctor’s marble mortar, though 
worn with long service and considerably dam¬ 
aged by a crack that pervaded it, continued to 
keep up an occasional intimacy with the pestle ; 
and he still weighed drachms and scruples in his 
delicate scales, though it seemed impossible, 
dealing with such minute quantities, that his 
tremulous fingers should not put in too little or 
too much, leaving out life with the deficiency, or 
spilling in death with the surplus. To say the 
truth, his stanchest friends were beginning to 
think that Dr. Dolliver’s fits of absence (when 
his mind appeared absolutely to depart from 
him, while his frail old body worked on mechan¬ 
ically) rendered him not quite trustworthy with¬ 
out a close supervision of his proceedings. It 
was impossible, however, to convince the aged 
apothecary of the necessity for such vigilance; 
and if anything could stir up his gentle temper 
to wrath, or, as oftener happened, to tears, it was 
the attempt (which he was marvellously quick 
to detect) thus to interfere with his long familiar 
business. 

The public, meanwhile, ceasing to regard Dr. 
Dolliver in his professional aspect, had begun to 
take an interest in him as perhaps their oldest 
fellow citizen. It was he that remembered the 
Great Fire and the Great Snow, and that had 
been a grown-up stripling at the terrible epoch 
of Witch Times, and a child just breeched at 

19 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


the breaking out of King Philipps Indian War. 
He, too, in his schoolboy days, had received a 
benediction from the patriarchal Governor Brad- 
street, and thus could boast (somewhat as Bish¬ 
ops do of their unbroken succession from the 
Apostles) of a transmitted blessing from the 
whole company of sainted Pilgrims, among 
whom the venerable magistrate had been an hon¬ 
ored companion. Viewing their townsman in 
this respect, the people revoked the courteous 
Doctorate with which they had heretofore de¬ 
corated him, and now knew him most familiarly 
as Grandsir Dolliver. His white head, his Pu¬ 
ritan band, his threadbare garb (the fashion of 
which he had ceased to change, half a century 
ago), his gold-headed staff, that had been Dr. 
Swinnerton’s, his shrunken, frosty figure, and its 
feeble movement, — all these characteristics had 
a wholeness and permanence in the public re¬ 
cognition, like the meeting-house steeple or the 
town pump. All the younger portion of the 
inhabitants unconsciously ascribed a sort of aged 
immortality to Grandsir Dolliver’s infirm and 
reverend presence. They fancied that he had 
been born old (at least, I remember entertaining 
some such notions about age-stricken people, 
when I myself was young), and that he could the 
better tolerate his aches and incommodities, his 
dull ears and dim eyes, his remoteness from hu¬ 
man intercourse within the crust of indurated 


20 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

years, the cold temperature that kept him always 
shivering and sad, the heavy burden that invisi¬ 
bly bent down his shoulders, —that all these in¬ 
tolerable things might bring a kind of enjoyment 
to Grandsir Dolliver, as the lifelong conditions 
of his peculiar existence. 

But, alas ! it was a terrible mistake. This 
weight of years had a perennial novelty for the 
poor sulferer. He never grew accustomed to it, 
but, long as he had now borne the fretful torpor 
of his waning life, and patient as he seemed, he 
still retained an inward consciousness that these 
stiffened shoulders, these quailing knees, this 
cloudiness of sight and brain, this confused for¬ 
getfulness of men and affairs, were troublesome 
accidents that did not really belong to him. He 
possibly cherished a half-recognized idea that 
they might pass away. Youth, however eclipsed 
for a season, is undoubtedly the proper, perma¬ 
nent, and genuine condition of man ; and if we 
look closely into this dreary delusion of growing 
old, we shall find that it never absolutely succeeds 
in laying hold of our innermost convictions. A 
sombre garment, woven of life’s unrealities, has 
muffled us from our true self, but within it smiles 
the young man whom we knew; the ashes of 
many perishable things have fallen upon our 
youthful fire, but beneath them lurk the seeds 
of inextinguishable flame. So powerful is this 
instinctive faith, that men of simple modes of 
21 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


character are prone to antedate its consummation. 
And thus it happened with poor Grandsir Dol- 
liver, who often awoke from an old man’s fitful 
sleep with a sense that his senile predicament was 
but a dream of the past night; and hobbling 
hastily across the cold floor to the looking-glass, 
he would be grievously disappointed at behold¬ 
ing the white hair, the wrinkles and furrows, the 
ashen visage and bent form, the melancholy 
mask of Age, in which, as he now remembered, 
some strange and sad enchantment had involved 
him for years gone by! 

To other eyes than his own, however, the 
shrivelled old gentleman looked as if there were 
little hope of his throwing off this too artfully 
wrought disguise, until, at no distant day, his 
stooping figure should be straightened out, his 
hoary locks be smoothed over his brows, and 
his much-enduring bones be laid safely away, 
with a green coverlet spread over them, beside 
his Bessie, who doubtless would recognize her 
youthful companion in spite of his ugly garni¬ 
ture of decay. He longed to be gazed at by the 
loving eyes now closed ; he shrank from the 
hard stare of them that loved him not. Walk¬ 
ing the streets seldom and reluctantly, he felt a 
dreary impulse to elude the people’s observa¬ 
tion, as if with a sense that he had gone irrevo¬ 
cably out of fashion, and broken his connecting 
links with the network of human life ; or else 
22 


SCENE FROM DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


it was that nightmare feeling which we some¬ 
times have in dreams, when we seem to find our¬ 
selves wandering through a crowded avenue, 
with the noonday sun upon us, in some wild ex¬ 
travagance of dress or nudity. He was conscious 
of estrangement from his townspeople, but did 
not always know how nor wherefore, nor why 
he should be thus groping through the twilight 
mist in solitude. If they spoke loudly to him, 
with cheery voices, the greeting translated itself 
faintly and mournfully to his ears; if they shook 
him by the hand, it was as if a thick, insensible 
glove absorbed the kindly pressure and the 
warmth. When little Pansie was the companion 
of his walk, her childish gayety and freedom did 
not avail to bring him into closer relationship 
with men, but seemed to follow him into that 
region of indefinable remoteness, that dismal 
Fairyland of aged fancy, into which old Grand- 
sir Dolliver had so strangely crept away. 

Yet there were moments, as many persons had 
noticed, when the great-grandpapa would sud¬ 
denly take stronger hues of life. It was as if his 
faded figure had been colored over anew, or at 
least, as he and Pansie moved along the street, 
as if a sunbeam had fallen across him, instead of 
the gray gloom of an instant before. His chilled 
sensibilities had probably been touched and 
quickened by the warm contiguity of his little 
■ companion through the medium of her hand, as 

23 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

it stirred within his own, or some inflection of 
her voice that set his memory ringing and chim¬ 
ing with forgotten sounds. While that music 
lasted, the old man was alive and happy. And 
there were seasons, it might be, happier than 
even these, when Pansie had been kissed and put 
to bed, and Grandsir Dolliver sat by his fireside 
gazing in among the massive coals, and absorb¬ 
ing their glow into those cavernous abysses with 
which all men communicate. Hence come an¬ 
gels or fiends into our twilight musings, accord¬ 
ing as we may have peopled them in bygone 
years. Over our friend’s face, in the rosy flicker 
of the fire gleam, stole an expression of repose 
and perfect trust that made him as beautiful to 
look at, in his high-backed chair, as the child 
Pansie on her pillow ; and sometimes the spirits 
that were watching him beheld a calm surprise 
draw slowly over his features and brighten into 
joy, yet not so vividly as to break his evening 
quietude. The gate of heaven had been kindly 
left ajar, that this forlorn old creature might 
catch a glimpse within. All the night afterwards 
he would be semi-conscious of an intangible bliss 
diffused through the fitful lapses of an old man’s 
slumber, and would awake, at early dawn, with 
a faint thrilling of the heartstrings, as if there 
had been music just now wandering over them. 

24 


ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE DOL- 
LIVER ROMANCE' 


W E may now suppose Grandsir Dol- 
liver to have finished his breakfast, 
with a better appetite and sharper 
perception of the qualities of his food than he 
has generally felt of late years, whether it were 
due to old Martha’s cookery or to the cordial 
of the night before. Little Pansie had also 
made an end of her bread and milk with entire 
satisfaction, and afterwards nibbled a crust, 
greatly enjoying its resistance to her little white 
teeth. 

How this child came by the odd name of 
Pansie, and whether it was really her baptismal 
name, I have not ascertained. More probably 
it was one of those pet appellations that grow 
out of a child’s character, or out of some keen 
thrill of affection in the parents, an unsought-for 
and unconscious felicity, a kind of revelation, 
teaching them the true name by which the 
child’s guardian angel would know it, — a name 
with playfulness and love in it, that we often 
observe to supersede, in the practice of those 

1 This scene was not revised by the author, but is printed from his first 
draught. 


25 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


who love the child best, the name that they 
carefully selected, and caused the clergyman to 
plaster indelibly on the poor little forehead at 
the font, — the love name, whereby, if the child 
lives, the parents know it in their hearts, or by 
which, if it dies, God seems to have called it 
away, leaving the sound lingering faintly and 
sweetly through the house. In Pansie's case, 
it may have been a certain pensiveness which 
was sometimes seen under her childish frolic, 
and so translated itself into French {pensh)y her 
mother having been of Acadian kin; or, quite 
as probably, it alluded merely to the color of 
her eyes, which, in some lights, were very like 
the dark petals of a tuft of pansies in the Doc¬ 
tor's garden. It might well be, indeed, on ac¬ 
count of the suggested pensiveness ; for the 
child's gayety had no example to sustain it, no 
sympathy of other children or grown people, 
— and her melancholy, had it been so dark a 
feeling, was but the shadow of the house and 
of the old man. If brighter sunshine came, she 
would brighten with it. This morning, surely, 
as the three companions, Pansie, puss, and 
Grandsir Dolliver, emerged from the shadow of 
the house into the small adjoining enclosure, 
they seemed all frolicsome alike. 

The Doctor, however, was intent over some¬ 
thing that had reference to his lifelong business 
of drugs. This little spot was the place where 
26 


ANOTHER SCENE 

he was wont to cultivate a variety of herbs sup¬ 
posed to be endowed with medicinal virtue. 
Some of them had been long known in the phar¬ 
macopoeia of the Old World; and others, in the 
early days of the country, had been adopted by 
the first settlers from the Indian medicine men, 
though with fear and even contrition, because 
these wild doctors were supposed to draw their 
pharmaceutic knowledge from no gracious 
source, the Black Man himself being the prin¬ 
cipal professor in their medical school. From 
his own experience, however. Dr. Dolliver had 
long since doubted, though he was not bold 
enough quite to come to the conclusion, that 
Indian shrubs, and the remedies prepared from 
them, were much less perilous than those so 
freely used in European practice, and singularly 
apt to be followed by results quite as propitious. 
Into such heterodoxy our friend was the more 
liable to fall, because it had been taught him 
early in life by his old master. Dr. Swinnerton, 
who, at those not infrequent times when he in¬ 
dulged a certain unhappy predilection for strong 
waters, had been accustomed to inveigh in terms 
of the most cynical contempt and coarsest ridi¬ 
cule against the practice by which he lived, and, 
as he affirmed, inflicted death on his fellow men. 
Our old apothecary, though too loyal to the 
learned profession with which he was connected 
fully to believe this bitter judgment, even when 
27 


I 


L 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


pronounced by his revered master, was still so 
far influenced that his conscience was possibly 
a little easier when making a preparation from 
forest herbs and roots than in the concoction 
of half a score of nauseous poisons into a sin¬ 
gle elaborate drug, as the fashion of that day 
was. 

But there were shrubs in the garden of which 
he had never ventured to make a medical use, 
nor, indeed, did he know their virtue, although 
from year to year he had tended and fertilized, 
weeded and pruned them, with something like 
religious care. They were of the rarest charac¬ 
ter, and had been planted by the learned and 
famous Dr. Swinnerton, who, on his deathbed, 
when he left his dwelling and all his abstruse 
manuscripts to his favorite pupil, had particu¬ 
larly directed his attention to this row of shrubs. 
They had been collected by himself from remote 
countries, and had the poignancy of torrid climes 
in them; and he told him, that, properly used, 
they would be worth all the rest of the legacy 
a hundredfold. As the apothecary, however, 
found the manuscripts, in which he conjectured 
there was a treatise on the subject of these shrubs, 
mostly illegible, and quite beyond his compre¬ 
hension in such passages as he succeeded in 
puzzling out (partly, perhaps, owing to his very 
imperfect knowledge of Latin, in which lan¬ 
guage they were written), he had never derived 
28 


ANOTHER SCENE 

from them any of the promised benefit. And, 
to say the truth, remembering that Dr. Swin- 
nerton himself never appeared to triturate or 
decoct or do anything else with the mysterious 
herbs, our old friend was inclined to imagine 
the weighty commendation of their virtues to 
have been the idly solemn utterance of mental 
aberration at the hour of death. So, with the 
integrity that belonged to his character, he had 
nurtured them as tenderly as was possible in 
the ungenial climate and soil of New England, 
putting some of them into pots for the winter; 
but they had rather dwindled than flourished, 
and he had reaped no harvests from them, nor 
observed them with any degree of scientific in¬ 
terest. 

His grandson, however, while yet a school¬ 
boy, had listened to the old man's legend of the 
miraculous virtues of these plants; and it took so 
firm a hold of his mind, that the row of outland¬ 
ish vegetables seemed rooted in it, and certainly 
flourished there with richer luxuriance than in 
the soil where they actually grew. The story, 
acting thus early upon his imagination, may be 
said to have influenced his brief career in life, and, 
perchance, brought about its early close. The 
young man, in the opinion of competent judges, 
was endowed with remarkable abilities, and ac¬ 
cording to the rumor of the people had wonder¬ 
ful gifts, which were proved by the cures he had 
29 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

wrought with remedies of his own invention. 
His talents lay in the direction of scientific 
analysis and inventive combination of chemical 
powers. While under the pupilage of his grand¬ 
father, his progress had rapidly gone quite be¬ 
yond his instructor’s hope, — leaving him even 
to tremble at the audacity with which he over¬ 
turned and invented theories, and to wonder at 
the depth at which he wrought beneath the su¬ 
perficialness and mock mystery of the medical 
science of those days, like a miner sinking his 
shaft and running a hideous peril of the earth 
caving in above him. Especially did he devote 
himself to these plants ; and under his care they 
had thriven beyond all former precedent, burst¬ 
ing into luxuriance of bloom, and most of them 
bearing beautiful flowers, which, however, in two 
or three instances, had the sort of natural repul¬ 
siveness that the serpent has in its beauty, com¬ 
pelled against its will, as it were, to warn the 
beholder of an unrevealed danger. The young 
man had long ago, it must be added, demanded 
of his grandfather the documents included in 
the legacy of Professor Swinnerton, and had 
spent days and nights upon them, growing pale 
over their mystic lore, which seemed the fruit 
not merely of the Professor’s own labors, but of 
those of more ancient sages than he; and often 
a whole volume seemed to be compressed within 
the limits of a few lines of crabbed manuscript, 

30 


ANOTHER SCENE 


judging from the time which it cost even the 
quick-minded student to decipher them. 

Meantime these abstruse investigations had 
not wrought such disastrous effects, as might 
have been feared, in causing Edward Dolliver 
to neglect the humble trade, the conduct of 
which his grandfather had now relinquished al¬ 
most entirely into his hands. On the contrary, 
with the mere side results of his study, or what 
may be called the chips and shavings of his real 
work, he created a prosperity quite beyond any¬ 
thing that his simple-minded predecessor had 
ever hoped for, even at the most sanguine epoch 
of his life. The young man’s adventurous en¬ 
dowments were miraculously alive, and connect¬ 
ing themselves with his remarkable ability for 
solid research, and perhaps his conscience being 
as yet imperfectly developed (as it sometimes 
lies dormant in the young), he spared not to 
produce compounds which, if the names were 
anywise to be trusted, would supersede all other 
remedies, and speedily render any medicine a 
needless thing, making the trade of apothecary 
an untenable one, and the title of Doctor ob¬ 
solete. Whether there was real efficacy in these 
nostrums, and whether their author himself had 
faith in them, is more than can safely be said ; 
but, at all events, the public believed in them, 
and thronged to the old and dim sign of the 
Brazen Serpent, which, though hitherto familiar 

31 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


to them and their forefathers, now seemed to shine 
with auspicious lustre, as if its old Scriptural 
virtues were renewed. If any faith was to be 
put in human testimony, many marvellous cures 
were really performed, the fame of which spread 
far and wide, and caused demands for these 
medicines to come in from places far beyond the 
precincts of the little town. Our old apothecary, 
now degraded by the overshadowing influence 
of his grandson’s character to a position not 
much above that of a shopboy, stood behind 
the counter with a face sad and distrustful, and 
yet with an odd kind of fltful excitement in it, 
as if he would have liked to enjoy this new pro¬ 
sperity, had he dared. Then his venerable 
figure was to be seen dispensing these question¬ 
able compounds by the single bottle and by the 
dozen, wronging his simple conscience as he 
dealt out what he feared was trash or worse, 
shrinking from the reproachful eyes of every 
ancient physician who might chance to be pass¬ 
ing by, but withal examining closely the silver, 
or the New England coarsely printed bills, which 
he took in payment, as if apprehensive that the 
delusive character of the commodity which he 
sold might be balanced by equal counterfeiting 
in the money received, or as if his faith in all 
things were shaken. 

Is it not possible that this gifted young man 
had indeed found out those remedies which 

32 


ANOTHER SCENE 


Nature has provided and laid away for the cure 
of every ill ? 

The disastrous termination of the most bril¬ 
liant epoch that ever came to the Brazen Serpent 
must be told in a few words. One night, Ed¬ 
ward Dolliver's young wife awoke, and, seeing 
the gray dawn creeping into the chamber, while 
her husband, it should seem, was still engaged 
in his laboratory, arose in her nightdress, and 
went to the door of the room to put in her 
gentle remonstrance against such labor. There 
she found him dead, — sunk down out of his 
chair upon the hearth, where were some ashes, 
apparently of burnt manuscripts, which appeared 
to comprise most of those included in Dr. Swin- 
nerton’s legacy, though one or two had fallen 
near the heap, and lay merely scorched beside 
it. It seemed as if he had thrown them into the 
fire, under a sudden impulse, in a great hurry 
and passion. It may be that he had come to 
the perception of something fatally false and de¬ 
ceptive in the successes which he had appeared 
to win, and was too proud and too conscientious 
to survive it. Doctors were called in, but had 
no power to revive him. An inquest was held, 
at which the jury, under the instruction, per¬ 
haps, of those same revengeful doctors, expressed 
the opinion that the poor young man, being 
given to strange contrivances with poisonous 
drugs, had died by incautiously tasting them 
33 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

himself. This verdict, and the terrible event 
itself, at once deprived the medicines of all their 
popularity ; and the poor old apothecary was no 
longer under any necessity of disturbing his con¬ 
science by selling them. They at once lost their 
repute, and ceased to be in any demand. In 
the few instances in which they were tried, the 
experiment was followed by no good results; 
and even those individuals who had fancied 
themselves cured, and had been loudest in 
spreading the praises of these beneficent com¬ 
pounds, now, as if for the utter demolition of 
the poor youth’s credit, suffered under a recur¬ 
rence of the worst symptoms, and, in more than 
one case, perished miserably : insomuch (for the 
days of witchcraft were still within the memory 
of living men and women) it was the general 
opinion that Satan had been personally con¬ 
cerned in this affliction, and that the Brazen 
Serpent, so long honored among them, was really 
the type of his subtle malevolence and perfect 
iniquity. It was rumored even that all prepara¬ 
tions that came from the shop were harmful: that 
teeth decayed that had been made pearly white 
by the use of the young chemist’s dentifrice; 
that cheeks were freckled that had been changed 
to damask roses by his cosmetics ; that hair 
turned gray or fell off that had become black, 
glossy, and luxuriant from the application of his 
mixtures; that breath which his drugs had 
34 


ANOTHER SCENE 

sweetened had now a sulphurous smell. More¬ 
over, all the money heretofore amassed by the 
sale of them had been exhausted by Edward 
Dolliver in his lavish expenditure for the pro¬ 
cesses of his study; and nothing was left for 
Pansie, except a few valueless and unsalable 
bottles of medicine, and one or two others, per¬ 
haps more recondite than their inventor had seen 
fit to offer to the public. Little Pansie’s mother 
lived but a short time after the shock of the 
terrible catastrophe ; and, as we began our story 
with saying, she was left with no better guardian¬ 
ship or support than might be found in the 
efforts of a long superannuated man. 

Nothing short of the simplicity, integrity, and 
piety of Grandsir Dolliver's character, known 
and acknowledged as far back as the oldest in¬ 
habitants remembered anything, and inevitably 
discoverable by the dullest and most prejudiced 
observers, in all its natural manifestations, could 
have protected him in still creeping about the 
streets. So far as he was personally concerned, 
however, all bitterness and suspicion had speed¬ 
ily passed away ; and there remained still the 
careless and neglectful good will, and the pre¬ 
scriptive reverence, not altogether reverential, 
which the world heedlessly awards to the unfor¬ 
tunate individual who outlives his generation. 

And now that we have shown the reader suf¬ 
ficiently, or at least to the best of our knowledge, 
35 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

and perhaps at tedious length, what was the pre¬ 
sent position of Grandsir Dolliver, we may let 
our story pass onward, though at such a pace 
as suits the feeble gait of an old man. 

The peculiarly brisk sensation of this morn¬ 
ing, to which we have more than once alluded, 
enabled the Doctor to toil pretty vigorously at 
his medicinal herbs, — his catnip, his vervain, 
and the like; but he did not turn his attention to 
the row of mystic plants, with which so much of 
trouble and sorrow either was, or appeared to be, 
connected. In truth, his old soul was sick of 
them, and their very fragrance, which the warm 
sunshine made strongly perceptible, was odious 
to his nostrils. But the spicy, homelike scent of 
his other herbs, the English simples, was grate¬ 
ful to him, and so was the earth smell, as he 
turned up the soil about their roots, and eagerly 
snuffed it in. Little Pansie, on the other hand, 
perhaps scandalized at great-grandpapa’s neglect 
of the prettiest plants in his garden, resolved to 
do her small utmost towards balancing his injus¬ 
tice ; so with an old shingle, fallen from the roof, 
which she had appropriated as her agricultural 
tool, she began to dig about them, pulling up 
the weeds, as she saw grandpapa doing. The 
kitten, too, with a look of elfish sagacity, lent 
her assistance, plying her paws with vast haste 
and efficiency at the roots of one of the shrubs. 
This particular one was much smaller than the 

36 


ANOTHER SCENE 

rest, perhaps because it was a native of the torrid 
zone, and required greater care than the others 
to make it flourish; so that, shrivelled, can¬ 
kered, and scarcely showing a green leaf, both 
Pansie and the kitten probably mistook it for a 
weed. After their joint efforts had made a pretty 
big trench about it, the little girl seized the 
shrub with both hands, bestriding it with her 
plump little legs, and giving so vigorous a pull, 
that, long accustomed to be transplanted annu¬ 
ally, it came up by the roots, and little Pansie 
came down in a sitting posture, making a broad 
impress on the soft earth. See, see. Doctor ! ” 
cries Pansie, comically enough giving him his 
title of courtesy, — ‘‘ look, grandpapa, the big, 
naughty weed ! 

Now the Doctor had at once a peculiar dread 
and a peculiar value for this identical shrub, 
both because his grandson's investigations had 
been applied more ardently to it than to all the 
rest, and because it was associated in his mind 
with an ancient and sad recollection. For he 
had never forgotten that his wife, the early lost, 
had once taken a fancy to wear its flowers, day 
after day, through the whole season of their 
bloom, in her bosom, where they glowed like a 
gem, and deepened her somewhat pallid beauty 
with a richness never before seen in it. At least 
such was the effect which this tropical flower im¬ 
parted to the beloved form in his memory, and 
37 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

thus it somehow both brightened and wronged 
her. This had happened not long before her 
death ; and whenever, in the subsequent years, 
this plant had brought its annual flower, it had 
proved a kind of talisman to bring up the image 
of Bessie, radiant with this glow that did not 
really belong to her naturally passive beauty, 
quickly interchanging with another image of her 
form, with the snow of death on cheek and fore¬ 
head. This reminiscence had remained among 
the things of which the Doctor was always con¬ 
scious, but had never breathed a word, through 
the whole of his long life, — a sprig of sensibility 
that perhaps helped to keep him tenderer and 
purer than other men, who entertain no such 
follies. And the sight of the shrub often brought 
back the faint, golden gleam of her hair, as if 
her spirit were in the sunlights of the garden, 
quivering into view and out of it. And there¬ 
fore, when he saw what Pansie had done, he 
sent forth a strange, inarticulate, hoarse, tremu¬ 
lous exclamation, a sort of aged and decrepit cry 
of mingled emotion. Naughty Pansie, to pull 
up grandpapa’s flower! ” said he, as soon as he 
could speak. ‘‘ Poison, Pansie, poison ! Fling 
it away, child ! ” 

And dropping his spade, the old gentleman 
scrambled towards the little girl as quickly as 
his rusty joints would let him, — while Pansie, 
as apprehensive and quick of motion as a fawn, 

38 


ANOTHER SCENE 

started up with a shriek of mirth and fear to 
escape him. It so happened that the garden 
gate was ajar; and a puff of wind blowing it 
wide open, she escaped through this fortuitous 
avenue, followed by great-grandpapa and the 
kitten. 

Stop, naughty Pansie, stop ! shouted our 
old friend. “ You will tumble into the grave ! 
The kitten, with the singular sensitiveness that 
seems to affect it at every kind of excitement, 
was now on her back. 

And, indeed, this portentous warning was bet¬ 
ter grounded and had a more literal meaning than 
might be supposed ; for the swinging gate com¬ 
municated with the burial ground, and almost 
directly in little Pansie's track there was a newly 
dug grave, ready to receive its tenant that after¬ 
noon. Pansie, however, fled onward with out¬ 
stretched arms, half in fear, half in fun, plying 
her round little legs with wonderful promptitude, 
as if to escape Time or Death, in the person of 
Grandsir Dolliver, and happily avoiding the om¬ 
inous pitfall that lies in every person’s path, till, 
hearing a groan from her pursuer, she looked 
over her shoulder, and saw that poor grandpapa 
had stumbled over one of the many hillocks. 
She then suddenly wrinkled up her little visage, 
and sent forth a full-breathed roar of sympathy 
and alarm. 


39 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


Grandpapa has broken his neck now! ” cried 
little Pansie, amid her sobs. 

Kiss grandpapa, and make it well, then,’’ 
said the old gentleman, recollecting her remedy, 
and scrambling up more readily than could be 
expected. Well,” he murmured to himself, 
‘‘ a hair’s breadth more, and I should have been 
tumbled into yonder grave. Poor little Pansie ! 
what wouldst thou have done then ? ” 

‘‘ Make the grass grow over grandpapa,” an¬ 
swered Pansie, laughing up in his face. 

‘‘ Poh, poh, child, that is not a pretty thing 
to say,” said grandpapa pettishly and disap¬ 
pointed, as people are apt to be when they try 
to calculate on the fitful sympathies of childhood. 
Come, you must go in to old Martha now.” 
The poor old gentleman was in the more haste 
to leave the spot because he found himself stand¬ 
ing right in front of his own peculiar row of 
gravestones, consisting of eight or nine slabs of 
slate, adorned with carved borders rather rudely 
cut, and the earliest one, that of his Bessie, bend¬ 
ing aslant, because the frost of so many winters 
had slowly undermined it. Over one grave of 
the row, that of his gifted grandson, there was 
no memorial. He felt a strange repugnance, 
stronger than he had ever felt before, to linger 
by these graves, and had none of the tender sor¬ 
row, mingled with high and tender hopes, that 
had sometimes made it seem good to him to be 
40 


ANOTHER SCENE 


there. Such moods, perhaps, often come to the 
aged, when the hardened earth crust over their 
souls shuts them out from spiritual influences. 

Taking the child by the hand, — her little ef¬ 
fervescence of infantile fun having passed into a 
downcast humor, though not well knowing as yet 
what a dusky cloud of disheartening fancies arose 
from these green hillocks, — he went heavily 
toward the garden gate. Close to its threshold, 
so that one who was issuing forth or entering 
must needs step upon it or over it, lay a small 
flat stone, deeply imbedded in the ground, and 
partly covered with grass, inscribed with the 
name ofDr. John Swinnerton, Physician.” 

Ay,” said the old man, as the well-remem¬ 
bered figure of his ancient instructor seemed to 
rise before him in his grave-apparel, with beard 
and gold-headed cane, black velvet doublet and 
cloak, “ here lies a man who, as people have 
thought, had it in his power to avoid the grave ! 
He had no little grandchild to tease him. He 
had the choice to die, and chose it.” 

So the old gentleman led Pansie over the stone, 
and carefully closed the gate; and, as it hap¬ 
pened, he forgot the uprooted shrub, which Pan¬ 
sie, as she ran, had flung away, and which had 
fallen into the open grave; and when the fu¬ 
neral came that afternoon, the coffin was let down 
upon it, so that its bright, inauspicious flower 
never bloomed again. 


41 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT OF THE 
DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


B e secret! and he kept his stern eye 
fixed upon him, as the coach began to 
move. 

Be secret! ” repeated the apothecary. “ I 
know not any secret that he has confided to me 
thus far, and as for his nonsense (as I will be 
bold to style it now he is gone) about a medi¬ 
cine of long life, it is a thing I forget in spite of 
myself, so very empty and trashy it is. I won¬ 
der, by the bye, that it never came into my 
head to give the Colonel a dose of the cordial 
whereof I partook last night. I have no faith 
that it is a valuable medicine, — little or none, 
— and yet there has been an unwonted brisk¬ 
ness in me all the morning.*’ 

Then a simple joy broke over his face — a 
flickering sunbeam among his wrinkles — as he 
heard the laughter of the little girl, who was 
running rampant with a kitten in the kitchen. 

‘‘ Pansie ! Pansie ! ** cackled he, “ grandpapa 
has sent away the ugly man now. Come, let 
us have a frolic in the garden.** 

And he whispered to himself again, That 
is a cordial yonder, and I will take it according 
42 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


to the prescription, knowing all the ingredients.” 
Then, after a moment’s thought, he added. 
All, save one.” 

So, as he had declared to himself his intentidn, 
that night, when little Pansie had long been 
asleep, and his small household was in bed, and 
most of the quiet, old-fashioned townsfolk like¬ 
wise, this good apothecary went into his labora¬ 
tory, and took out of a cupboard in the wall a 
certain ancient-looking bottle, which was cased 
over with a network of what seemed to be wo¬ 
ven silver, like the wicker-woven bottles of our 
days. He had previously provided a goblet of 
pure water. Before opening the bottle, how¬ 
ever, he seemed to hesitate, and pondered and 
babbled to himself; having long since come to 
that period of life when the bodily frame, hav¬ 
ing lost much of its value, is more tenderly cared 
for than when it was a perfect and inestimable 
machine. 

I triturated, I infused, I distilled it myself 
in these very rooms, and know it — know it 
all — all the ingredients, save one. They are 
common things enough — comfortable things — 
some of them a little queer — one or two that 
folks have a prejudice against — and then there 
is that one thing that I don’t know. It is fool¬ 
ish in me to be dallying with such a mess, 
which I thought was a piece of quackery, while 
that strange visitor bade me do it, — and yet, 
43 


I 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


what a strength has come from it! He said it 
was a rare cordial, and, methinks, it has bright¬ 
ened up my weary life all day, so that Pansie 
has found me the fitter playmate. And then 
the dose, — it is so absurdly small ! I will try 
it again.*' 

He took the silver stopple from the bottle, 
and with a practised hand, tremulous as it was 
with age, so that one would have thought it 
must have shaken the liquor into a perfect 
shower of misapplied drops, he dropped — I 
have heard it said — only one single drop into 
the goblet of water. It fell into it with a daz¬ 
zling brightness, like a spark of ruby flame, and 
subtly diffusing itself through the whole body 
of water, turned it to a rosy hue of great bril¬ 
liancy. He held it up between his eyes and the 
light, and seemed to admire and wonder at it. 

“ It is very odd,’* said he, “ that such a pure, 
bright liquor should have come out of a parcel 
of weeds that mingled their juices here. The 
thing is a folly, — it is one of those composi¬ 
tions in which the chemists— the cabalists, per¬ 
haps— used to combine what they thought the 
virtues of many plants, thinking that something 
would result in the whole, which was not in 
either of them, and a new efflcacy be created. 
Whereas, it has been the teaching of my expe¬ 
rience that one virtue counteracts another, and 
is the enemy of it. I never believed the former 
44 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 

theory, even when that strange madman bade 
me do it. And what a thick, turbid matter it 
was, until that last ingredient, — that powder 
which he put in with his own hand ! Had he 
let me see it, I would first have analyzed it, and 
discovered its component parts. The man was 
mad, undoubtedly, and this may have been poi¬ 
son. But its efiFect is good. Poh ! I will taste 
again, because of this weak, agued, miserable 
state of mine; though it is a shame in me, a 
man of decent skill in my way, to believe in a 
quack’s nostrum. But it is a comfortable kind 
of thing.” 

Meantime, that single drop (for good Dr. 
Dolliver had immediately put a stopper into the 
bottle) diffused a sweet odor through the cham¬ 
ber, so that the ordinary fragrances and scents of 
apothecaries’ stuff seemed to be controlled and 
influenced by it, and its bright potency also dis¬ 
pelled a certain dimness of the antiquated room. 

The Doctor, at the pressure of a great need, 
had given incredible pains to the manufacture 
of this medicine; so that, reckoning the pains 
rather than the ingredients (all except one, of 
which he was not able to estimate the cost nor 
value), it was really worth its weight in gold. 
And, as it happened, he had bestowed upon it 
the hard labor of his poor life, and the time 
that was necessary for the support of his family, 
without return ; for the customers, after playing 
45 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


off this cruel joke upon the old man, had never 
come back; and now, for seven years, the bot¬ 
tle had stood in a corner of the cupboard. To 
be sure, the silver-cased bottle was worth a trifle 
for its silver, and still more, perhaps, as an an¬ 
tiquarian knickknack. But, all things consid¬ 
ered, the honest and simple apothecary thought 
that he might make free with the liquid to such 
small extent as was necessary for himself. And 
there had been something in the concoction that 
had struck him; and he had been fast breaking 
lately; and so, in the dreary fantasy and lonely 
recklessness of his old age, he had suddenly 
bethought himself of this medicine (cordial, as 
the strange man called it, which had come to him 
by long inheritance in his family) and he had 
determined to try it. And again, as the night 
before, he took out the receipt — a roll of an¬ 
tique parchment, out of which, provokingly, one 
fold had been lost — and put on his spectacles 
to puzzle out the passage. 

Guttam unicam in aquam puram, two gills. 
“ If the Colonel should hear of this,*’ said Dr. 
Dolliver, ‘‘ he might fancy it his nostrum of 
long life, and insist on having the bottle for his 
own use. The foolish, fierce old gentleman! 
He has grown very earthly, of late, else he 
would not desire such a thing. And a strong 
desire it must be to make him feel it desirable. 
For my part, I only wish for something that. 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


for a short time, may clear my eyes, so that I 
may see little Pansie’s beauty, and quicken my 
ears, that I may hear her sweet voice, and give 
me nerve, while God keeps me here, that I may 
live longer to earn bread for dear Pansie. She 
provided for, I would gladly lie down yonder 
with Bessie and our children. Ah ! the van¬ 
ity of desiring lengthened days ! — There ! — I 
have drunk it, and methinks its final, subtle 
flavor hath strange potency in it.” 

The old man shivered a little, as those shiver 
who have just swallowed good liquor, while it 
is permeating their vitals. Yet he seemed to 
be in a pleasant state of feeling, and, as was fre¬ 
quently the case with this simple soul, in a de¬ 
vout frame of mind. He read a chapter in the 
Bible, and said his prayers for Pansie and him¬ 
self, before he went to bed, and had much bet¬ 
ter sleep than usually comes to people of his 
advanced age; for, at that period, sleep is dif¬ 
fused through their wakefulness, and a dim and 
tiresome half-perception through their sleep, so 
that the only result is weariness. 

Nothing very extraordinary happened to Dr. 
Dolliver or his small household for some time 
afterwards. He was favored with a comfortable 
winter, and thanked Heaven for it, and put it 
to a good use (at least he intended it so) by 
concocting drugs; which perhaps did a little 
towards peopling the graveyard, into which his 
47 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


windows looked; but that was neither his pur¬ 
pose nor his fault. None of the sleepers, at all 
events, interrupted their slumbers to upbraid 
him. He had done according to his own art¬ 
less conscience and the recipes of licensed phy¬ 
sicians, and he looked no further, but pounded, 
triturated, infused, made electuaries, boluses, 
juleps, or whatever he termed his productions, 
with skill and diligence, thanking Heaven that 
he was spared to do so, when his contempora¬ 
ries generally were getting incapable of similar 
efforts. It struck him with some surprise, but 
much gratitude to Providence, that his sight 
seemed to be growing rather better than worse. 
He certainly could read the crabbed handwriting 
and hieroglyphics of the physicians with more 
readiness than he could a year earlier. But he 
had been originally near-sighted, with large, pro¬ 
jecting eyes ; and near-sighted eyes always seem 
to get a new lease of light as the years go on. 
One thing was perceptible about the Doctor’s 
eyes, not only to himself in the glass, but to 
everybody else; namely, that they had an unac¬ 
customed gleaming brightness in them ; not so 
very bright, either, but yet so much so that lit¬ 
tle Pansie noticed it, and sometimes, in her play¬ 
ful, roguish way, climbed up into his lap, and 
put both her small palms over them; telling 
grandpapa that he had stolen somebody else’s 
eyes, and given away his own, and that she 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


liked his old ones better. The poor old Doc¬ 
tor did his best to smile through his eyes, and 
so to reconcile Pansie to their brightness; but 
still she continually made the same silly remon¬ 
strance, so that he was fain to put on a pair of 
green spectacles when he was going to play with 
Pansie, or took her on his knee. Nay, if he 
looked at her, as had always been his custom, 
after she was asleep, in order to see that all was 
well with her, the little child would put up her 
hands, as if he held a light that was flashing 
on her eyeballs ; and unless he turned away his 
gaze quickly, she would Wake up in a fit of 
crying. 

On the whole, the apothecary had as comfort¬ 
able a time as a man of his years could expect. 
The air of the house and of the old graveyard 
seemed to suit him. What so seldom happens 
in many’s advancing age, his night's rest did 
him good, whereas, generally, an old man wakes 
up ten times as nervous and dispirited as he 
went to bed, just as if, during his sleep, he had 
been working harder than ever he did in the 
daytime. It had been so with the Doctor him¬ 
self till within a few months. To be sure, he 
had latterly begun to practise various rules of 
diet and exercise, which commended themselves 
to his approbation. He sawed some of his own 
firewood, and fancied that, as was reasonable, 
it fatigued him less day by day. He took walks 
49 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


with Pansie, and though, of course, her little 
footsteps, treading on the elastic air of childhood, 
far outstripped his own, still the old man knew 
that he was not beyond the recuperative period 
of life, and that exercise out of doors and proper 
food can do somewhat towards retarding the 
approach of age. He was inclined, also, to im¬ 
pute much good effect to a daily dose of Santa 
Cruz rum (a liquor much in vogue in that day), 
which he was now in the habit of quaffing at the 
meridian hour. All through thp Doctor’s life 
he had eschewed strong spirits. But after sev¬ 
enty,” quoth old Dr. Dolliver, ‘‘ a man is all 
the better in head and stomach for a little stim¬ 
ulus ; ” and it certainly seemed so in his case. 
Likewise, I know not precisely how often, but 
complying punctiliously with the recipe, as an 
apothecary naturally would, he took his drop of 
the mysterious cordial. 

He was inclined, however, to impute little or 
no efficacy to this, and to laugh at himself for 
having ever thought otherwise. The dose was 
so very minute ! and he had never been sensi¬ 
ble of any remarkable effect on taking it, after 
all. A genial warmth, he sometimes fancied, 
diffused itself throughout him, and perhaps con¬ 
tinued during the next day. A quiet and re¬ 
freshing night’s rest followed, and alacritous 
waking in the morning; but all this was far 
more probably owing, as has been already hinted, 

50 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


to excellent and well-considered habits of diet 
and exercise. Nevertheless, he still continued 
the cordial with tolerable regularity,—the more, 
because on one or two occasions, happening to 
omit it, it so chanced that he slept wretchedly, 
and awoke in strange aches and pains, torpors, 
nervousness, shaking of the hands, blearedness 
of sight, lowness of spirits, and other ills, as is 
the misfortune of some old men, who are often 
threatened by a thousand evil symptoms that 
come to nothing, foreboding no particular dis¬ 
order, and passing away as unsatisfactorily as 
they come. At another time, he took two or 
three drops at once, and was alarmingly fever¬ 
ish in consequence. Yet it was very true, that 
the feverish symptoms were pretty sure to dis¬ 
appear on his renewal of the medicine. Still 
it could not be that,'' thought the old man, a 
hater of empiricism (in which, however, is con¬ 
tained all hope for man), and disinclined to be¬ 
lieve in anything that was not according to rule 
and art. And then, as aforesaid, the dose was 
so ridiculously small ! 

Sometimes, however, he took, half laughingly, 
another view of it, and felt disposed to think 
that chance might really have thrown in his way 
a very remarkable mixture, by which, if it had 
happened to him earlier in life, he might have 
amassed a larger fortune, and might even have 
raked together such a competency as would have 

51 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


prevented his feeling much uneasiness about the 
future of little Pansie. Feeling as strong as he 
did nowadays, he might reasonably count upon 
ten years more of life, and in that time the pre¬ 
cious liquor might be exchanged for much gold. 
“ Let us see !'' quoth he ; ‘‘ by what attractive 
name shall it be advertised ? ^ The old man’s 

cordial ’ ? That promises too little. Poh, poh ! 
I would stain my honesty, my fair reputation, 
the accumulation of a lifetime, and befool my 
neighbor and the public, by any name that would 
make them imagine 1 had found that ridiculous 
talisman that the alchemists have sought. The 
old man’s cordial, — that is best. And five shil¬ 
lings sterling the bottle. That surely were not 
too costly, and would give the medicine a better 
reputation and higher vogue (so foolish is the 
world) than if I were to put it lower. I will 
think further of this. But pshaw, pshaw ! ” 
What is the matter, grandpapa ? ” said little 
Pansie, who had stood by him, wishing to speak 
to him at least a minute, but had been deterred 
by his absorption; why do you say ‘ Pshaw ’ ? ” 
Pshaw! ” repeated grandpapa, “ there is one 
ingredient that I don’t know.” 

So this very hopeful design was necessarily 
given up, but that it had occurred to Dr. Dol- 
liver was perhaps a token that his mind was in 
a very vigorous state ; for it had been noted of 
him through life, that he had little enterprise, 
52 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


little activity, and that, for the want of these 
things, his very considerable skill in his art had 
been almost thrown away, as regarded his pri¬ 
vate affairs, when it might easily have led him 
to fortune. Whereas, here in his extreme age, 
he had first bethought himself of a way to grow 
rich. Sometimes this latter spring causes — as 
blossoms come on the autumnal tree — a spurt 
of vigor, or untimely greenness, when Nature 
laughs at her old child, half in kindness and 
half in scorn. It is observable, however, I fancy, 
that after such a spurt, age comes on with re¬ 
doubled speed, and that the old man has only 
run forward with a show of force, in order to 
fall into his grave the sooner. 

Sometimes as he was walking briskly along 
the street, with little Pansie clasping his hand, 
and perhaps frisking rather more than became a 
person of his venerable years, he had met the 
grim old wreck of Colonel Dabney, moving 
goutily, and gathering wrath anew with every 
touch of his painful foot to the ground ; or driv¬ 
ing by in his carriage, showing an ashen, angry, 
wrinkled face at the window, and frowning at 
him — the apothecary thought — with a pecul¬ 
iar fury, as if he took umbrage at his audacity 
in being less broken by age than a gentleman 
like himself. The apothecary could not help 
feeling as if there were some unsettled quarrel 
or dispute between himself and the Colonel, he 
53 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


could not tell what or why. The Colonel always 
gave him a haughty nod of half-recognition; 
and the people in the street, to whom he was 
a familiar object, would say, ‘‘The worshipful 
Colonel begins to find himself mortal like the 
rest of us. He feels his years.'' “ He'd be 
glad, I warrant," said one, “ to change with you. 
Doctor. It shows what difference a good life 
makes in men, to look at him and you. You 
are half a score of years his elder, methinks, and 
yet look what temperance can do for a man. 
By my credit, neighbor, seeing how brisk you 
have been lately, I told my wife you seemed 
to be growing younger. It does me good to 
see it. We are about of an age, I think, and I 
like to notice how we old men keep young and 
keep one another in heart. I myself — ahem 
— ahem — feel younger this season than for 
these five years past." 

“ It rejoices me that you feel so," quoth the 
apothecary, who had just been thinking that this 
neighbor of his had lost a great deal, both in 
mind and body, within a short period, and rather 
scorned him for it. “ Indeed, I find old age 
less uncomfortable than I supposed. Little 
Pansie and I make excellent companions for 
one another." 

And then, dragged along by Pansie's little 
hand, and also impelled by a certain alacrity that 
rose with him in the morning, and lasted till his 
54 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


healthy rest at night, he bade farewell to his con¬ 
temporary, and hastened on; while the latter, 
left behind, was somewhat irritated as he looked 
at the vigorous movement of the apothecary’s 
legs. 

He need not make such a show of brisk¬ 
ness, neither,” muttered he to himself. ‘‘ This 
touch of rheumatism troubles me a bit just now; 
but try it on a good day, and I’d walk with him 
for a shilling. Pshaw! I ’ll walk to his funeral 
yet.” 

One day, while the Doctor, with the activity 
that bestirred itself in him nowadays, was mix¬ 
ing and manufacturing certain medicaments that 
came in frequent demand, a carriage stopped at 
his door, and he recognized the voice of Colonel 
Dabney, talking in his customary stern tone to 
the woman who served him. And, a moment 
afterwards, the coach drove away, and he actu¬ 
ally heard the old dignitary lumbering upstairs, 
and bestowing a curse upon each particular step, 
as if that were the method to make them soften 
and become easier when he should come down 
again. “ Pray, your worship,” said the Doc¬ 
tor from above, “ let me attend you below 
stairs.” 

No,” growled the Colonel, I ’ll meet you 
on your own ground. I can climb a stair yet, 
and be hanged to you.” 

55 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


So saying, he painfully finished the ascent, 
and came into the laboratory, where he let him¬ 
self fall into the Doctor's easy-chair, with an 
anathema on the chair, the Doctor, and himself; 
and, staring round through the dusk, he met 
the wide-open, startled eyes of little Pansie, who 
had been reading a gilt picture book in the 
corner. 

Send away that child, Dolliver ! " cried the 
Colonel angrily. “ Confound her, she makes 
my bones ache. I hate everything young." 

‘‘ Lord, Colonel," the poor apothecary ven¬ 
tured to say, there must be young people in 
the world as well as old ones. 'T is my mind, 
a man's grandchildren keep him warm round 
about him." 

“ I have none, and want none," sharply re¬ 
sponded the Colonel; “ and as for young peo¬ 
ple, let me be one of them, and they may exist, 
otherwise not. It is a cursed bad arrangement 
of the world, that there are young and old here 
together." 

When Pansie had gone away, which she did 
with anything but reluctance, having a natural 
antipathy to this monster of a Colonel, the latter 
personage tapped with his crutch-handled cane 
on a chair that stood near, and nodded in an au¬ 
thoritative way to the apothecary to sit down in 
it. Dr. Dolliver complied submissively, and the 
Colonel, with dull, unkindly eyes, looked at him 
56 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


sternly, and with a kind of intelligence amid the 
aged stolidity of his aspect, that somewhat puz¬ 
zled the Doctor. In this way he surveyed him 
all over, like a judge, when he means to hang 
a man, and for some reason or none, the apothe¬ 
cary felt his nerves shake, beneath this steadfast 
look. 

Aha ! Doctor ! ” said the Colonel at last, 
with a doltish sneer, ‘‘you bear your years 
well.” 

“ Decently well. Colonel; I thank Providence 
for it,” answered the meek apothecary. 

“ I should say,” quoth the Colonel, “ you are 
younger at this moment than when we spoke 
together two or three years ago. I noted then 
that your eyebrows were a handsome snow- 
white, such as befits a man who has passed be¬ 
yond his threescore years and ten, and five years 
more. Why, they are getting dark again, Mr. 
Apothecary.” 

“ Nay, your worship must needs be mistaken 
there,” said the Doctor, with a timorous chuckle. 
“It is many a year since I have taken a delib¬ 
erate note of my wretched old visage in a glass, 
but I remember they were white when I looked 
last.” 

“ Come, Doctor, I know a thing or two,” said 
the Colonel, with a bitter scoff; “and what’s 
this, you old rogue ? Why, you Ve rubbed 
away a wrinkle since we met. Take off those 
57 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


infernal spectacles, and look me in the face. Ha 1 
I see the devil in your eye. How dare you let 
it shine upon me so?’' 

‘‘ On my conscience, Colonel,” said the apoth¬ 
ecary, strangely struck with the coincidence of 
this accusation with little Pansie’s complaint, 
“I know not what you mean. My sight is 
pretty well for a man of my age. We near¬ 
sighted people begin to know our best eyesight 
when other people have lost theirs.” 

“Ah! ah! old rogue ! ” repeated the insuffer¬ 
able Colonel, gnashing his ruined teeth at him, 
as if, for some incomprehensible reason, he 
wished to tear him to pieces and devour him. 
“ I know you. You are taking the life away 
from me, villain! and I told you it was my in¬ 
heritance. And I told you there was a Bloody 
Footstep, bearing its track down through my 
race.” 

“ I remember nothing of it,” said the Doc¬ 
tor, in a quake, sure that the Colonel was in 
one of his mad fits. “ And on the word of an 
honest man, I never wronged you in my life. 
Colonel.” 

“We shall see,” said the Colonel, whose 
wrinkled visage grew absolutely terrible with 
its hardness; and his dull eyes, without losing 
their dulness, seemed to look through him. 

“ Listen to me, sir. Some ten years ago, 
there came to you a man on a secret business. 

58 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


He had an old musty bit of parchment, on 
which were written some words, hardly legible, 
in an antique hand,— an old deed, it might 
have been, — some family document, and here 
and there the letters were faded away. But 
this man had spent' his life over it, and he had 
made out the meaning, and he interpreted it to 
you, and left it with you; only there was one 
gap, — one torn or obliterated place. Well, 
sir, — and he bade you, with your poor little 
skill at the mortar, and for a certain sum,— 
ample repayment for such a service, — to manu¬ 
facture this medicine, — this cordial. It was an 
affair of months. And just when you thought 
it finished, the man came again, and stood over 
your cursed beverage, and shook a powder, or 
dropped a lump into it, or put in some ingredi¬ 
ent, in which was all the hidden virtue, — or, at 
least, it drew out all the hidden virtue of the 
mean and common herbs, and married them 
into a wondrous efficacy. This done, the man 
bade you do certain other things with the pota¬ 
tion, and went away ’’ — the Colonel hesitated 
a moment — and never came back again.” 

“ Surely, Colonel, you are correct,” said the 
apothecary; much startled, however, at the 
Colonel’s showing himself so well acquainted 
with an incident which he had supposed a secret 
with himself alone. Yet he had a little reluc¬ 
tance in owning it, although he did not exactly 
59 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

understand why, since the Colonel had, appar¬ 
ently, no righthil claim to it, at all events. 

“ That medicine, that receipt,’’ continued his 
visitor, is my hereditary property, and I chal¬ 
lenge you, on your peril, to give it up.” 

“ But what if the original owner should call 
upon me for it ? ” objected Dr. Dolliver. 

I ’ll warrant you against that,” said the 
Colonel; and the apothecary thought there was 
something ghastly in his look and tone. ‘‘ Why, 
’t is ten year, you old fool; and do you think a 
man with a treasure like that in his possession 
would have waited so long ? ” 

“ Seven years it was ago,” said the apothe¬ 
cary. Septem annis passatis: so says the 
Latin.” 

Curse your Latin,” answers the Colonel. 
“ Produce the stuff. You have been violating 
the first rule of your trade, — taking your own 
drugs, — your own, in one sense ; mine by the 
right of three hundred years. Bring it forth, I 
say ! ” 

Pray excuse me, worthy Colonel,” pleaded 
the apothecary; for though convinced that the 
old gentleman was only in one of his insane fits, 
when he talked of the value of this concoction, 
yet he really did not like to give up the cordial, 
which perhaps had wrought him some benefit. 
Besides, he had at least a claim upon it for 
much trouble and skill expended in its compo- 
6o 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 

sition. This he suggested to the Colonel, who 
scornfully took out of his pocket a network 
purse, with more golden guineas in it than the 
apothecary had seen in the whole seven years, 
and was rude enough to fling it in his face. 

Take that,” thundered he, “ and give up the 
thing, or I will have you in prison before you 
are an hour older ! Nay,” he continued, grow¬ 
ing pale, which was his mode of showing terrible 
wrath; since all through life, till extreme age 
quenched it, his ordinary face had been a blaz¬ 
ing red, I dl put you to death, you villain, as 
I Ve a right! ” And thrusting his hand into his 
waistcoat pocket, lo ! the madman took a small 
pistol from it, which he cocked, and presented at 
the poor apothecary. The old fellow quaked 
and cowered in his chair, and would indeed have 
given his whole shopful of better concocted 
medicines than this, to be out of this danger. 
Besides, there were the guineas; the Colonel 
had paid him a princely sum for what was prob¬ 
ably worth nothing. 

‘‘ Hold ! hold ! ” cried he, as the Colonel, 
with stern eye, pointed the pistol at his head. 
“ You shall have it.” 

So he rose all trembling, and crept to that 
secret cupboard, where the precious bottle — 
since precious it seemed to be — was reposited. 
In all his life, long as it had been, the apoth¬ 
ecary had never before been threatened by a 

6i 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


deadly weapon ; though many as deadly a thing 
had he seen poured into a glass, without wink¬ 
ing. And so it seemed to take his heart and 
life away, and he brought the cordial forth feebly, 
and stood tremulously before the Colonel, ashy 
pale, and looking ten years older than his real 
age, instead of five years younger, as he had 
seemed just before this disastrous interview with 
the Colonel. 

“You look as if you needed a drop of it 
yourself,*' said Colonel Dabney, with great 
scorn. “ But not a drop shall you have. Al¬ 
ready have you stolen too much," said he, lift¬ 
ing up the bottle, and marking the space to 
which the liquor had subsided in it in conse¬ 
quence of the minute doses with which the 
apothecary had made free. “Fool, had you 
taken your glass like a man, you might have 
been young again. Now, creep on, the few 
months you have left, poor, torpid knave, and 
die ! Come — a goblet! quick ! " 

He clutched the bottle meanwhile vora¬ 
ciously, miserly, eagerly, furiously, as if it were 
his life that he held in his grasp; angry, impa¬ 
tient, as if something long sought were within his 
reach, and not yet secure, — with longing thirst 
and desire ; suspicious of the world and of fate ; 
feeling as if an iron hand were over him, and 
a crowd of violent robbers round about him, 
struggling for it. At last, unable to wait longer, 
62 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


just as the apothecary was tottering away in 
quest of a drinking glass, the Colonel took out 
the stopple, and lifted the flask itself to his 
lips. 

For Heaven’s sake, no ! ” cried the Doctor. 

The dose is one single drop ! — one drop. 
Colonel, one drop! ” 

Not a drop to save your wretched old soul,” 
responded the Colonel; probably thinking that 
the apothecary was pleading for a small share 
of the precious liquor. He put it to his lips, 
and, as if quenching a lifelong thirst, swallowed 
deep draughts, sucking it in with desperation, 
till, void of breath, he set it down upon the 
table. The rich, poignant perfume spread itself 
through the air. 

The apothecary, with an instinctive careful¬ 
ness that was rather ludicrous under the cir¬ 
cumstances, caught up the stopper, which the 
Colonel had let fall, and forced it into the bot¬ 
tle to prevent any further escape of virtue. He 
then fearfully watched the result of the mad¬ 
man’s potation. 

The Colonel sat a moment in his chair, pant¬ 
ing for breath; then started to his feet with a 
prompt vigor that contrasted widely with the 
infirm and rheumatic movements that had here¬ 
tofore characterized him. He struck his fore¬ 
head violently with one hand, and smote his 
chest with the other; he stamped his foot thun- 

63 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 

derously on the ground; then he leaped up to 
the ceiling, and came down with an elastic bound. 
Then he laughed, a wild, exulting ha! ha ! with 
a strange triumphant roar that filled the house 
and reechoed through it; a sound full of fierce, 
animal rapture, — enjoyment of sensual life 
mixed up with a sort of horror. After all, real 
as it was, it was like the sounds a man makes in 
a dream. And this, while the potent draught 
seemed still to be making its way through his 
system; and-the frightened apothecary thought 
that he intended a revengeful onslaught upon 
himself. Finally, he uttered a loud unearthly 
screech, in the midst of which his voice broke, 
as if some unseen hand were throttling him, and, 
starting forward, he fought frantically, as if he 
would clutch the life that was being rent away, 
— and fell forward with a dead thump upon the 
floor. 

“ Colonel ! Colonel ! ” cried the terrified 
Doctor. 

The feeble old man, with difficulty, turned 
over the heavy frame, and saw at once, with prac¬ 
tised eye, that he was dead. He set him up, and 
the corpse looked at him with angry reproach. 
He was so startled, that his subsequent recollec¬ 
tions of the moment were neither distinct nor 
steadfast; but he fancied, though he told the 
strange impression to no one, that on his first 
glimpse of the face, with a dark flush of what 
64 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


looked like rage still upon it, it was a young 
man’s face that he saw, — a face with all the pas¬ 
sionate energy of early manhood, — the capacity 
for furious anger which the man had lost half a 
century ago, crammed to the brim with vigor till 
it became agony. But the next moment, if it 
were so (which it could not have been), the face 
grew ashen, withered, shrunken, more aged than 
in life, though still the murderous fierceness 
remained, and seemed to be petrified forever 
upon it. 

After a moment’s bewilderment, Dolliver ran 
to the window looking to the street, threw it 
open, and called loudly for assistance. He 
opened also another window, for the air to blow 
through, for he was almost stifled with the rich 
odor of the cordial which filled the room, and 
was now exuded from the corpse. 

He heard the voice of Pansie, crying at the 
door, which was locked, and, turning the key, 
he caught her in his arms, and hastened with 
her below stairs, to give her into the charge of 
Martha, who seemed half stupefied with a sense 
of something awful that had occurred. 

Meanwhile there was a rattling and a banging 
at the street portal, to which several people had 
been attracted both by the Doctor’s outcry from 
the window, and by the awful screech in which 
the Colonel’s spirit (if, indeed, he had that divine 
part) had just previously taken its flight. 

65 


THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 


He let them in, and, pale and shivering, ush¬ 
ered them up to the death chamber, where one 
or two, with a more delicate sense of smelling 
than the rest, snuffed the atmosphere, as if sen¬ 
sible of an unknown fragrance, yet appeared 
afraid to breathe, when they saw the terrific 
countenance leaning back against the chair, and 
eying them so truculently. 

I would fain quit the scene and have done 
with the Colonel, who, I am glad, has happened 
to die at so early a period of the narrative. I 
therefore hasten to say that a coroner's inquest 
was held on the spot, though everybody felt 
that it was merely ceremonial, and that the tes¬ 
timony of their good and ancient townsman. Dr. 
Dolliver, was amply sufficient to settle the mat¬ 
ter. The verdict was, “ Death by the visitation 
of God." 

The apothecary gave evidence that the Colo¬ 
nel, without asking leave, and positively against 
his advice, had drunk a quantity of distilled 
spirits; and one or two servants, or members 
of the Colonel’s family, testified that he had been 
in a very uncomfortable state of mind for some 
days past, so that they fancied he was insane. 
Therefore nobody thought of blaming Dr. Dol¬ 
liver for what had happened; and, if the plain 
truth must be told, everybody who saw the 
wretch was too well content to be rid of him, to 
trouble themselves more than was quite neces- 
66 


ANOTHER FRAGMENT 


sary about the way in which the incumbrance 
had been removed. 

The corpse was taken to the mansion in order 
to receive a magnificent funeral; and Dr. Dol- 
liver was left outwardly in quiet, but much dis¬ 
turbed, and indeed almost overwhelmed in¬ 
wardly, by what had happened. Yet it is to be 
observed, that he had accounted for the death 
with a singular dexterity of expression, when he 
attributed it to a dose of distilled spirits. What 
kind of distilled spirits were those. Doctor ? and 
will you venture to take any more of them ? 

67 






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SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

OR, THE ELIXIR OF LIFE 

I T was a day in early spring; and as that 
sweet, genial time of year and atmosphere 
calls out tender greenness from the ground, 
— beautiful flowers, or leaves that look beauti¬ 
ful because so long unseen under the snow and 
decay, — so the pleasant air and warmth had 
called out three young people, who sat on a 
sunny hillside enjoying the warm day and one 
another. For they were all friends: two of 
them younu men, and playmates from boy¬ 
hood ; the mird a girl, who, two or three years 
younger than themselves, had been the object 
of their boy love, their little rustic, childish gal¬ 
lantries, their budding affections; until, grow¬ 
ing all towards manhood and womanhood, they 
had ceased to talk about such matters, perhaps 
thinking about them the more. 

These three young people were neighbors' 
children, dwelling in houses that stood by the 
side of the great Lexington road, along a ridgy 
hill that rose abruptly behind them, its brow 
covered with a wood, and which stretched, with 
one or two breaks and interruptions, into the 
69 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

heart of the village of Concord, the county 
town. It was in the side of this hill that, ac¬ 
cording to tradition, the first settlers of the 
village had burrowed in caverns which they 
had dug out for their shelter, like swallows 
and woodchucks. As its slope was towards the 
south, and its ridge and crowning woods de¬ 
fended them from the northern blasts and 
snowdrifts, it was an admirable situation for 
the fierce New England winter; and the tem¬ 
perature was milder, by several degrees, along 
this hillside than on the unprotected plains, or 
by the river, or in any other part of Concord. 

So that here, during the hundred years that 
had elapsed since the first settlement of the 
place, dwellings had successively risen close to 
the hilPs foot, and the meadow tl^t lay on the 
other side of the road — a fertile tract — had 
been cultivated; and these three young people 
were the children's children's children of per¬ 
sons of respectability who had dwelt there, — 
Rose Garfield, in a small house, the site of 
which is still indicated by the cavity of a cellar, 
in which I this very past summer planted some ' 
sunflowers to thrust their great disks out from 
the hollow and allure the bee and the hum¬ 
ming bird; Robert Hagburn, in a house of 
somewhat more pretension, a hundred yards or 
so nearer to the village, standing back from the 
road in the broader space which the retreating 
70 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


hill, cloven by a gap in that place, afforded; 
where some elms intervened between it and the 
road, offering a site which some person of a 
natural taste for the gently picturesque had 
seized upon. Those same elms, or their suc¬ 
cessors, still flung a noble shade over the same 
old house, which the magic hand of Alcott has 
improved by the touch that throws grace, ami¬ 
ableness, and natural beauty over scenes that 
have little pretension in themselves. 

Now, the other young man, Septimius Fel¬ 
ton, dwelt in a small wooden house, then, I 
suppose, of some score of years" standing, — a 
two-story house, gabled before, but with only 
two rooms on a floor, crowded upon by the 
hill behind, — a house of thick walls, as if the 
projector had that sturdy feeling of permanence 
in life which incites people to make strong their 
earthly habitations, as if deluding themselves 
with the idea that they could still inhabit them ; 
in short, an ordinary dwelling of a well-to-do 
New England farmer, such as his race had been 
for two or three generations past, although 
there were traditions of ancestors who had led 
lives of thought and study, and possessed all 
the erudition that the universities of England 
could bestow. Whether any natural turn for 
study had descended to Septimius from these 
worthies, or how his tendencies came to be dif¬ 
ferent from those of his family, — who, within 

71 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


the memory of the neighborhood, had been 
content to sow and reap the rich field in front 
of their homestead, — so it was, that Septimius 
had early manifested a taste for study. By the 
kind aid of the good minister of the town he 
had been fitted for college ; had passed through 
Cambridge by means of what little money his 
father had left him and by his own exertions in 
schoolkeeping; and was now a recently deco¬ 
rated baccalaureate, with, as was understood, a 
purpose to devote himself to the ministry, un¬ 
der the auspices of' that reverend and good 
friend whose support and instruction had al¬ 
ready stood him in such stead. 

Now here were these young people, on that 
beautiful spring morning, sitting on the hill¬ 
side, a pleasant spectacle of fresh life, — plea¬ 
sant, as if they had sprouted like green things 
under the influence of the warm sun. The girl 
was very pretty, a little freckled, a little tanned, 
but with a face that glimmered and gleamed 
with quick and cheerful expressions; a slender 
form, not very large, with a quick grace in its 
movements; sunny hair that had a tendency to 
curl, which she probably favored at such mo¬ 
ments as her household occupation left her; a 
sociable and pleasant child, as both of the young 
men evidently thought. Robert Hagburn, one 
might suppose, would have been the most to 
72 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


her taste: a ruddy, burly young fellow, hand¬ 
some, and free of manner, six feet high, famous 
through the neighborhood for strength and 
athletic skill, the early promise of what was to 
be a man fit for all offices of active rural life, 
and to be, in mature age, the selectman, the 
deacon, the representative, the colonel. As for 
Septimius, let him alone a moment or two, and 
then they would see him, with his head bent 
down, brooding, brooding, his eyes fixed on 
some chip, some stone, some common plant, 
any commonest thing, as if it were the clew and 
index to some mystery; and when, by chance 
startled out of these meditations, he lifted his 
eyes, there would be a kind of perplexity, a 
dissatisfied, foiled look in them, as if of his 
speculations he found no end. Such was now 
the case, while Robert and the girl were run¬ 
ning on with a gay talk about a serious sub¬ 
ject, so that, gay as it was, it was interspersed 
with little thrills of fear on the girPs part, of 
excitement on Robertas. Their talk was of 
public trouble. 

“My grandfather says,** said Rose Garfield, 
“ that we shall never be able to stand against 
old England, because the men are a weaker 
race than he remembers in his day, — weaker 
than his father, who came from England,— 
and the women slighter still; so that we are 
73 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


dwindling away, grandfather thinks; only a lit¬ 
tle sprightlier, he says sometimes, looking at 
me.’* 

Lighter, to be sure,” said Robert Hagburn ; 
there is the lightness of the Englishwomen 
compressed into little space. I have seen them 
and know. And as to the men. Rose, if they 
have lost one spark of courage and strength 
that their English forefathers brought from the 
old land, — lost any one good quality without 
having it made up by as good or better, — then, 
for my part, I don’t want the breed to exist any 
longer. And this war, that they say is coming 
on, will be a good opportunity to test the mat¬ 
ter. Septimius ! don’t you think so ? ” 

Think what ? ” asked Septimius gravely, 
lifting up his head. 

Think ! why, that your countrymen are 
worthy to live,” said Robert Hagburn impa¬ 
tiently. “For there is a question on that 
point.” 

“It is hardly worth answering or consider¬ 
ing,” said Septimius, looking at him thought¬ 
fully. “We live so little while, that (always 
setting aside the effect on a future existence) it 
is little matter whether we live or no.” 

“ Little matter ! ” said Rose, at first bewil¬ 
dered, then laughing, — “ little matter ! when it 
is such a comfort to live, so pleasant, so sweet! ” 

“Yes, and so many things to do,” said Rob- 

74 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ert: to make fields yield produce ; to be busy 

among men, and happy among the women folk; 
to play, work, fight, and be active in many 
ways/* 

“ Yes ; but so soon stilled, before your activ¬ 
ity has come to any definite end,** responded 
Septimius gloomily. ‘‘ I doubt, if it had been 
left to my choice, whether I should have taken 
existence on such terms ; so much trouble of 
preparation to live, and then no life at all; a 
ponderous beginning, and nothing more.** 

“ Do you find fault with Providence, Septi¬ 
mius ? ** asked Rose, a feeling of solemnity com¬ 
ing over her cheerful and buoyant nature. Then 
she burst out a-laughing. ‘‘How grave he 
looks, Robert; as if he had lived two or three 
lives already, and knew all about the value of it. 
But I think it was worth while to be born, if 
only for the sake of one such pleasant spring 
morning as this; and God gives us many and 
better things when these are past.** 

“ We hope so,** said Septimius, who was 
again looking on the ground. “ But who 
knows ? ** 

“ I thought you knew,** said Robert Hag- 
burn. “ You have been to college, and have 
learned, no doubt, a great many things. You 
are a student of theology, too, and have looked 
into these matters. Who should know, if not 
you ? ** 


75 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


“ Rose and you have just as good means of 
ascertaining these points as I/’ said Septimius ; 
“all the certainty that can be had lies on the 
surface, as it should, and equally accessible to 
every man or woman. If we try to grope deeper, 
we labor for naught, and get less wise while we 
try to be more so. If life were long enough to 
enable us thoroughly to sift these matters, then, 
indeed! — but it is so short! 

“ Always this same complaint,'’ said Robert. 
“ Septimius, how long do you wish to live ? ” 

“ Forever! ” said Septimius. “ It is none too 
long for all I wish to know.” 

“ Forever?” exclaimed Rose, shivering doubt¬ 
fully. “Ah, there would come many, many 
thoughts, and after a while we should want a 
little rest.” 

“ Forever? ” said Robert Hagburn. “ And 
what would the people do who wish to fill our 
places ? You are unfair, Septimius. Live and 
let live ! Turn about! Give me my seventy 
years, and let me go, — my seventy years of what 
this life has, — toil, enjoyment, suffering, strug¬ 
gle, fight, rest, — only let me have my share of 
what’s going, and I shall be content.” 

“ Content with leaving everything at odd 
ends; content with being nothing, as you were 
before! ” 

“No, Septimius, content with heaven at 
last,” said Rose, who had come out of her 
76 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


laughing mood into a sweet seriousness. “ O 
dear! think what a worn and ugly thing one of 
these fresh little blades of grass would seem if 
it were not to fade and wither in its time, after 
being green in its time.’* 

“Well, well, my pretty Rose,” said Septimius 
apart, “an immortal weed is not very lovely 
to think of, that is true ; but I should be content 
with one thing, and that is yourself, if you were 
immortal, just as you are at seventeen, so fresh, 
so dewy, so red-lipped, so golden-haired, so gay, 
so frolicsome, so gentle.” 

“ But I am to grow old, and to be brown 
and wrinkled, gray-haired and ugly,” said Rose 
rather sadly, as she thus enumerated the items 
of her decay, “ and then you would think me 
all lost and gone. But still there might be 
youth underneath, for one that really loved me 
to see. Ah, Septimius Felton ! such love as 
would see with ever new eyes is the true love.” 
And she ran away and left him suddenly, and 
Robert Hagburn departing at the same time, 
this little knot of three was dissolved, and Sep¬ 
timius went along the wayside wall, thought¬ 
fully, as was his wont, to his own dwelling. He 
had stopped for some moments on the thresh¬ 
old, vaguely enjoying, it is probable, the light 
and warmth of the new spring day and the 
sweet air, which was somewhat unwonted to the 
young man, because he was accustomed to spend 
77 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

much of his day in thought and study within 
doors, and, indeed, like most studious young 
men, was overfond of the fireside, and of mak¬ 
ing life as artificial as he could, by fireside heat 
and lamplight, in order to suit it to the artificial, 
intellectual, and moral atmosphere which he de¬ 
rived from books, instead of living healthfully 
in the open air, and among his fellow beings. 
Still he felt the pleasure of being warmed through 
by this natural heat, and, though blinking a 
little from its superfluity, could not but confess 
an enjoyment and cheerfulness in this flood 
of morning light that came aslant the hillside. 
While he thus stood, he felt a friendly hand laid 
upon his shoulder, and, looking up, there was 
the minister of the village, the old friend of 
Septimius, to whose advice and aid it was ow¬ 
ing that Septimius had followed his instincts by 
going to college, instead of spending a thwarted 
and dissatisfied life in the field that fronted the 
house. He was a man of middle age, or little 
beyond, of a sagacious, kindly aspect; the ex¬ 
perience, the lifelong, intimate acquaintance with 
many concerns of his people being more ap¬ 
parent in him than the scholarship for which 
he had been early distinguished. A tanned 
man, like one who labored in his own grounds 
occasionally ; a man of homely, plain address, 
which, when occasion called for it, he could 
readily exchange for the polished manner of one 

78 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

who had seen a more refined world than this 
about him. 

“ Well, Septimius,'* said the minister kindly, 
“ have you yet come to any conclusion about 
the subject of which we have been talking ? 

Only so far, sir,’* replied Septimius, “ that 
I find myself every day less inclined to take up 
the profession which I have had in view so many 
years. I do not think myself fit for the sacred 
desk.” 

“ Surely not; no one is,” replied the clergy¬ 
man ; ‘‘ but if I may trust my own judgment, 
you have at least many of the intellectual quali¬ 
fications that should adapt you to it. There is 
something of the Puritan character in you, Sep¬ 
timius, derived from holy men among your an¬ 
cestors ; as, for instance, a deep, brooding turn, 
such as befits that heavy brow; a disposition to 
meditate on things hidden; a turn for medita¬ 
tive inquiry, — all these things, with grace to 
boot, mark you as the germ of a man who might 
do God service. Your reputation as a scholar 
stands high at college. You have not a turn 
for worldly business.” 

“ Ah, but, sir,” said Septimius, casting down 
his heavy brows, “ I lack something within.” 

“ Faith, perhaps,” replied the minister; “at 
least, you think so.” 

“ Cannot I know it ? ” asked Septimius. 

“ Scarcely, just now,” said his friend. “ Study 
79 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


for the ministry ; bind your thoughts to it; 
pray ; ask a belief, and you will soon find you 
have it. Doubts may occasionally press in ; 
and it is so with every clergyman. But your 
prevailing mood will be faith.** 

“It has seemed to me,** observed Septimius, 
“ that it is not the prevailing mood, the most 
common one, that is to be trusted. This is 
habit, formality, the shallow covering which we 
close over what is real, and seldom suffer to be 
blown aside. But it is the snakelike doubt that 
thrusts out its head, which gives us a glimpse 
of reality. Surely such moments are a hundred 
times as real as the dull, quiet moments of faith 
or what you call such.** 

“ I am sorry for you,** said the minister; “ yet 
to a youth of your frame of character, of your 
ability I will say, and your requisition for some¬ 
thing profound in the grounds of your belief, it 
is not unusual to meet this trouble. Men like 
you have to fight for their faith. They fight in 
the first place to win it, and ever afterwards to 
hold it. The Devil tilts with them daily, and 
often seems to win.** 

“ Yes; but,** replied Septimius, “ he takes 
deadly weapons now. If he meet me with the 
cold pure steel of a spiritual argument, I might 
win or lose, and still not feel that all was lost; 
but he takes, as it were, a great clod of earth, 
massive rocks and mud, soil and dirt, and flings 
8o 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


it at me overwhelmingly ; so that I am buried 
under it.” 

“ How is that? ” said the minister. “ Tell 
me more plainly.” 

May it not be possible,” asked Septimius, 
to have too profound a sense of the marvel¬ 
lous contrivance and adaptation of this material 
world to require or believe in anything spiritual ? 
How wonderful it is to see it all alive on this 
spring day, all growing, budding ! Do we ex¬ 
haust it in our little life ? Not so; not in a 
hundred or a thousand lives. The whole race 
of man, living from the beginning of time, have 
not, in all their number and multiplicity and in 
all their duration, come in the least to know the 
world they live in ! And how is this rich world 
thrown away upon us, because we live in it such 
a moment! What mortal work has ever been 
done since the world began ! Because we have 
no time. No lesson is taught. We are snatched 
away from our study before we have learned the 
alphabet. As the world now exists, I confess 
it to you frankly, my dear pastor and instructor, 
it seems to me all a failure, because we do not 
live long enough.” 

“ But the lesson is carried on in another state 
of being ! ” 

Not the lesson that we begin here,” said 
Septimius. “We might as well train a child in 
a primeval forest, to teach him how to live in a 

8i 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


European court. No, the fall of man, which 
Scripture tells us of, seems to me to have its 
operation in this grievous shortening of earthly- 
existence, so that our life here at all is grown 
ridiculous.’’ 

‘‘Well, Septimius,” replied the minister sadly, 
yet not as one shocked by what he had never 
heard before, “ I must leave you to struggle 
through this form of unbelief as best you may, 
knowing that it is by your own efforts that you 
must come to the other side of this slough. 
We will talk further another time. You are get¬ 
ting worn out, my young friend, with much 
study and anxiety. It were well for you to live 
more, for the present, in this earthly life that 
you prize so highly. Cannot you interest your¬ 
self in the state of this country, in this coming 
strife, the voice of which now sounds so hoarsely 
and so near us ? Come out of your thoughts 
and breathe another air.” 

“ I will try,” said Septimius. 

“ Do,” said the minister, extending his hand 
to him, “ and in a little time you will find the 
change.” 

He shook the young man’s hand kindly, and 
took his leave, while Septimius entered his 
house, and turning to the right sat down in his 
study, where, before the fireplace, stood the 
table with books and papers. On the shelves 
around the low-studded walls were more books, 
82 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


few in number, but of an erudite appearance, 
many of them having descended to him from 
learned ancestors, and having been brought to 
light by himself after long lying in dusty closets; 
works of good and learned divines, whose wis¬ 
dom he had happened, by help of the Devil, to 
turn to mischief, reading them by the light of 
hell fire. For, indeed, Septimius had but given 
the clergyman the merest partial glimpse of his 
state of mind. He was not a new beginner in 
doubt; but, on the contrary, it seemed to him 
as if he had never been other than a doubter 
and questioner, even in his boyhood ; believing 
nothing, although a thin veil of reverence had 
kept him from questioning some things. And 
now the new, strange thought of the sufficiency 
of the world for man, if man were only sufficient 
for that, kept recurring to him ; and with it 
came a certain sense, which he had been con¬ 
scious of before, that he, at least, might never die. 
The feeling was not peculiar to Septimius. It is 
an instinct, the meaning of which is mistaken. 
We have strongly within us the sense of an un- 
dying principle, and we transfer that true sense 
to this life and to the body, instead of interpret¬ 
ing it justly as the promise of spiritual immor¬ 
tality. 

So Septimius looked up out of his thoughts, 
and said proudly : Why should I die ? I 
cannot die, if worthy to live. What if I should 

83 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


say this moment that I will not die, not till ages 
hence, not till the world Is exhausted ? Let 
other men die, if they choose, or yield ; let him 
that is strong enough live ! 

After this flush of heroic mood, however, the 
glow subsided, and poor Septimius spent the 
rest of the day, as was his wont, poring over his 
books, in which all the meanings seemed dead 
and mouldy, and like pressed leaves (some of 
which dropped out of the books as he opened 
them), brown, brittle, sapless ; so even the 
thoughts, which when the writers had gathered 
them seemed to them so brightly colored and 
full of life. Then he began to see that there 
must have been some principle of life left out 
of the book, so that these gathered thoughts 
lacked something that had given them their only 
value. Then he suspected that the way truly 
to live and answer the purposes of life was not 
to gather up thoughts into books, where they 
grew so dry, but to live and still be going about, 
full of green wisdom, ripening ever, not in max¬ 
ims cut and dry, but a wisdom ready for daily 
occasions, like a living fountain ; and that to be 
this, it was necessary to exist long on earth, drink 
in all its lessons, and not to die on the attainment 
of some smattering of truth; but to live all the 
more for that, and apply it to mankind and 
increase it thereby. 

Everything drifted towards the strong, strange 
84 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


eddy into which his mind had been drawn ; all 
his thoughts set hitherward. 

So he sat brooding in his study until the shrill- 
voiced old woman—an aunt, who was his house¬ 
keeper and domestic ruler — called him to din¬ 
ner,— a frugal dinner, — and chided him for 
seeming inattentive to a dish of early dandelions 
which she had gathered for him; but yet tem¬ 
pered her severity with respect for the future 
clerical rank of her nephew, and for his already 
being a bachelor of arts. The old woman’s 
voice spoke outside of Septimius, rambling away, 
and he paying little heed, till at last dinner was 
over, and Septimius drew back his chair, about 
to leave the table. 

‘‘Nephew Septimius,” said the old woman, 
“ you began this meal to-day without asking a 
blessing, you get up from it without giving 
thanks, and you soon to be a minister of the 
Word.” 

“ God bless the meat,” replied Septimius (by 
way of blessing), “ and make it strengthen us 
for the life he means us to bear. Thank God 
for our food,” he added (by way of grace), “ and 
may it become a portion in us of an immortal 
body.” 

“ That sounds good, Septimius,” said the old 
lady. Ah ! you ’ll be a mighty man in the pul¬ 
pit, and worthy to keep up the name of your 
great-grandfather, who, they say, made the leaves 

85 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


wither on a tree with the fierceness of his blast 
against a sin. Some say, to be sure, it was an 
early frost that helped him.'’ 

I never heard that before. Aunt Keziah," 
said Septimius. 

“ I warrant you no,” replied his aunt. A 
man dies, and his greatness perishes as if it had 
never been, and people remember nothing of 
him only when they see his gravestone over his 
old dry bones, and say he was a good man in 
his day.” 

“What truth there is in Aunt Keziah’s 
words! ” exclaimed Septimius. “ And how I hate 
the thought and anticipation of that contemptu¬ 
ous appreciation of a man after his death ! Every 
living man triumphs over every dead one, as he 
lies, poor and helpless, under the mould, a pinch 
of dust, a heap of bones, an evil odor ! I hate 
the thought! It shall not be so ! ” 

It was strange how every little incident thus 
brought him back to that one subject which was 
taking so strong hold of his mind ; every avenue 
led thitherward; and he took it for an indication 
that nature had intended, by innumerable ways, 
to point out to us the great truth that death was 
an alien misfortune, a prodigy, a monstrosity, 
into which man had only fallen by defect; and 
that even now, if a man had a reasonable por¬ 
tion of his original strength in him, he might 
live forever and spurn death. 

86 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Our story is an internal one, dealing as little 
as possible with outward events, and taking hold 
of these only where it cannot be helped, in or¬ 
der by means of them to delineate the history of 
a mind bewildered in certain errors. We would 
not willingly, if we could, give a lively and pic¬ 
turesque surrounding to this delineation, but it 
is necessary that we should advert to the circum¬ 
stances of the time in which this inward history 
was passing. We will say, therefore, that that 
night there was a cry of alarm passing all through 
the succession of country towns and rural com¬ 
munities that lay around Boston, and dying away 
towards the coast and the wilder forest borders. 
Horsemen galloped past the line of farmhouses 
shouting alarm ! alarm ! There were stories of 
marching troops coming like dreams through the 
midnight. Around the little rude meeting¬ 
houses there was here and there the beat of a 
drum, and the assemblage of farmers with their 
weapons. So all that night there was marching, 
there was mustering, there was trouble ; and, on 
the road from Boston, a steady march of soldiers’ 
feet onward, onward into the land whose last 
warlike disturbance had been when the red In¬ 
dians trod it. 

Septimius heard it, and knew, like the rest, 
that it was the sound of coming war. “ Fools 
that men are ! ” said he, as he rose from bed and 
looked out at the misty stars ; they do not live 

87 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


long enough to know the value and purport of 
life, else they would combine together to live 
long, instead of throwing away the lives of thou¬ 
sands as they do. And what matters a little 
tyranny in so short a life ? What matters a 
form of government for such ephemeral crea¬ 
tures ? 

As morning brightened, these sounds, this 
clamor, — or something that was in the air and 
caused the clamor, — grew so loud that Septi- 
mius seemed to feel it even in his solitude. It 
was in the atmosphere,—storm, wild excitement, 
a coming deed. Men hurried along the usually 
lonely road in groups, with weapons in their 
hands, — the old fowling piece of seven-foot 
barrel, with which the Puritans had shot ducks 
on the river and Walden Pond; the heavy har¬ 
quebus, which perhaps had levelled one of King 
Philip’s Indians ; the old King gun, that blazed 
away at the French of Louisburg or Quebec,— 
hunter, husbandman, all were hurrying each 
other. It was a good time, everybody felt, to 
be alive, a nearer kindred, a closer sympathy 
between man and man ; a sense of the goodness 
of the world, of the sacredness of country, of the 
excellence of life ; and yet its slight account com¬ 
pared with any truth, any principle ; the weigh¬ 
ing of the material and ethereal, and the finding 
the former not worth considering, when, never¬ 
theless, it had so much to do with the settlement 
88 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


of the crisis. The ennobling of brute force ; the 
feeling that it had its godlike side; the drawing 
of heroic breath amid the scenes of ordinary life, 
so that it seemed as if they had all been trans¬ 
figured since yesterday. O, high, heroic, trem¬ 
ulous juncture, when man felt himself almost an 
angel; on the verge of doing deeds that out¬ 
wardly look so fiendish! O, strange rapture 
of the coming battle ! We know something of 
that time now ; we that have seen the muster of 
the village soldiery on the meeting-house green 
and at railway stations ; and heard the drum and 
fife, and seen the farewells; seen the familiar 
faces that we hardly knew, now that we felt them 
to be heroes; breathed higher breath for their 
sakes; felt our eyes moistened; thanked them 
in our souls for teaching us that nature is yet ca¬ 
pable of heroic moments; felt how a great im¬ 
pulse lifts up a people, and every cold, passion¬ 
less, indifferent spectator, — lifts him up into 
religion, and makes him join in what becomes 
an act of devotion, a prayer, when perhaps he 
but half approves. 

Septimius could not study on a morning like 
this. He tried to say to himself that he had 
nothing to do with this excitement; that his 
studious life kept him away from it; that his 
intended profession was that of peace; but say 
what he might to himself, there was a tremor, 
a bubbling impulse, a tingling in his ears, — the 
89 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


page that he opened glimmered and dazzled 
before him. 

‘‘ Septimius! Septimius! cried Aunt Keziah, 
looking into the room, “ in Heaven’s name, are 
you going to sit here to-day, and the redcoats 
coming to burn the house over our heads? 
Must I sweep you out with the broomstick? 
For shame, boy ! for shame! ” 

“Are they coming, then. Aunt Keziah?” 
asked her nephew. “Well, I am not a fight¬ 
ing man.” 

“ Certain they are. They have sacked Lex¬ 
ington, and slain the people, and burnt the meet¬ 
ing-house. That concerns even the parsons; 
and you reckon yourself among them. Go 
out, go out, I say, and learn the news! ” 

Whether moved by these exhortations or by 
his own stifled curiosity, Septimius did at length 
issue from his door, though with that reluctance 
which hampers and impedes men whose current 
of thought and interest runs apart from that 
of the world in general; but forth he came, feel¬ 
ing strangely, and yet with a strong impulse to 
fling himself headlong into the emotion of the 
moment. It was a beautiful morning, spring¬ 
like and summerlike at once. If there had been 
nothing else to do or think of, such a morning 
was enough for life only to breathe its air and 
be conscious of its inspiring influence. 

Septimius turned along the road towards the 
90 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


village, meaning to mingle with the crowd on 
the green, and there learn all he could of the 
rumors that vaguely filled the air, and doubtless 
were shaping themselves into various forms of 
fiction. 

As he passed the small dwelling of Rose Gar¬ 
field, she stood on the doorstep, and bounded 
forth a little way to meet him, looking frightened, 
excited, and yet half pleased, but strangely 
pretty; prettier than ever before, owing to some 
hasty adornment or other, that she would never 
have succeeded so well in giving to herself if 
she had had more time to do it in. 

“ Septimius — Mr. Felton! cried she, asking 
information of him who, of all men in the neigh¬ 
borhood, knew nothing of the intelligence afloat; 
but it showed a certain importance that Septi¬ 
mius had with her. “ Do you really think the 
redcoats are coming ? Ah, what shall we do ? 
What shall we do ? But you are not going to 
the village, too, and leave us all alone ? ” 

I know not whether they are coming or no. 
Rose,’* said Septimius, stopping to admire the 
young girl’s fresh beauty, which made a double 
stroke upon him by her excitement, and, more¬ 
over, made her twice as free with him as ever 
she had been before; for there is nothing truer 
than that any breaking up of the ordinary state 
of things is apt to shake women out of their 
proprieties, break down barriers, and bring them 

91 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


into perilous proximity with the world. ‘‘ Are 
you alone here ? Had you not better take 
shelter in the village ? ” 

And leave my poor, bedridden grand¬ 
mother! ” cried Rose angrily. “You know I 
can't, Septimius. But I suppose I am in no 
danger. Go to the village, if you like.” 

“ Where is Robert Hagburn ? ” asked Septi¬ 
mius. 

“ Gone to the village this hour past, with his 
grandfather's old firelock on his shoulder,” said 
Rose; “ he was running bullets before day- 
light.” 

“ Rose, I will stay with you,” said Septimius. 

“ O gracious, here they come, I 'm sure ! ” 
cried Rose. “ Look yonder at the dust. Mercy ! 
a man at a gallop ! ” 

In fact, along the road, a considerable stretch 
of which was visible, they heard the clatter of 
hoofs and saw a little cloud of dust approaching 
at the rate of a gallop, and disclosing, as it drew 
near, a hatless countryman in his shirt sleeves, 
who, bending over his horse's neck, applied a 
cart whip lustily to the animal's flanks, so as to 
incite him to most unwonted speed. At the 
same time, glaring upon Rose and Septimius, he 
lifted up his voice and shouted in a strange, high 
tone, that communicated the tremor and excite¬ 
ment of the shouter to each auditor : “ Alarum ! 

92 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


alarum ! alarum ! The redcoats ! The redcoats! 
To arms ! alarum ! ” 

And trailing this sound far wavering behind 
him like a pennon, the eager horseman dashed 
onward to the village. 

‘‘ O dear, what shall we do ?'' cried Rose, her 
eyes full of tears, yet dancing with excitement. 
‘‘ They are coming ! they are coming ! I hear 
the drum and fife.” 

I really believe they are,” said Septimius, 
his cheek flushing and growing pale, not with 
fear, but the inevitable tremor, half painful, half 
pleasurable, of the moment. ‘‘ Hark ! there was 
the shrill note of a fife. Yes, they are com- 
ingl'* 

He tried to persuade Rose to hide herself in 
the house ; but that young person would not be 
persuaded to do so, clinging to Septimius in a 
way that flattered while it perplexed him. Be¬ 
sides, with all the girl’s fright, she had still a 
good deal of courage, and much curiosity too, 
to see what these redcoats were of whom she 
heard such terrible stories. 

‘‘Well,well. Rose,” said Septimius, “ I doubt 
not we may stay here without danger, — you, a 
woman, and I, whose profession is to be that of 
peace and good will to all men. They cannot, 
whatever is said of them, be on an errand of 
massacre. We will stand here quietly; and, 
93 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


seeing that we do not fear them, they will un¬ 
derstand that we mean them no harm.” 

They stood, accordingly, a little in front of the 
door by the well curb, and soon they saw a heavy 
cloud of dust, from amidst which shone bay¬ 
onets ; and anon, a military band, which had 
hitherto been silent, struck up, with drum and 
fife, to which the tramp of a thousand feet fell 
in regular order; then came the column, moving 
massively, and the redcoats who seemed some¬ 
what wearied by a long night march, dusty, with 
bedraggled gaiters, covered with sweat which had 
run down from their powdered locks. Never¬ 
theless, these ruddy, lusty Englishmen marched 
stoutly, as men that needed only a half hour’s 
rest, a good breakfast, and a pot of beer apiece, 
to make them ready to face the world. Nor 
did their faces look anywise rancorous; but at 
most, only heavy, cloddish, good-natured, and 
humane. 

O heavens, Mr. Felton ! ” whispered Rose, 
‘‘ why should we shoot these men, or they us ? 
They look kind, if homely. Each of them has 
a mother and sisters, I suppose, just like our 
men.” 

“It is the strangest thing in the world that 
we can think of killing them,” said Septimius. 
“ Human life is so precious.” 

Just as they were passing the cottage, a halt 
was called by the commanding officer, in order 
94 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


that some little rest might get the troops into a 
better condition and give them breath before 
entering the village, where it was important to 
make as imposing a show as possible. During 
this brief stop, some of the soldiers approached 
the well curb, near which Rose and Septimius 
were standing, and let down the bucket to sat¬ 
isfy their thirst. A young officer, a petulant 
boy, extremely handsome, and of gay and buoy¬ 
ant deportment, also came up. 

“ Get me a cup, pretty one,” said he, patting 
Rose’s cheek with great freedom, though it was 
somewhat and indefinitely short of rudeness; 

a mug, or something to drink out of, and you 
shall have a kiss for your pains.” 

“ Stand off, sir ! ” said Septimius fiercely. 

It is a coward’s part to insult a woman.” 

“ I intend no insult in this,” replied the hand¬ 
some young officer, suddenly snatching a kiss 
from Rose, before she could draw back. ‘‘ And 
if you think it so, my good friend, you had bet¬ 
ter take your weapon and get as much satisfac¬ 
tion as you can, shooting at me from behind a 
hedge.” 

Before Septimius could reply or act, — and, 
in truth, the easy presumption of the young 
Englishman made it difficult for him, an inex¬ 
perienced recluse as he was, to know what to do 
or say, — the drum beat a little tap, recalling 
the soldiers to their rank and to order. The 
95 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


young officer hastened back, with a laughing 
glance at Rose, and a light, contemptuous look 
of defiance at Septimius, the drums rattling out 
in full beat, and the troops marched on. 

What impertinence ! ” said Rose, whose in¬ 
dignant color made her look pretty enough al¬ 
most to excuse the offence. 

It is not easy to see how Septimius could have 
shielded her from the insult; and yet he felt 
inconceivably outraged and humiliated at the 
thought that this offence had occurred while 
Rose was under his protection, and he respon¬ 
sible for her. Besides, somehow or other, he 
was angry with her for having undergone the 
wrong, though certainly most unreasonably ; for 
the whole thing was quicker done than said. 

You had better go into the house now, 
Rose,'’ said he, and see to your bedridden 
grandmother.” 

And what will you do, Septimius ? ” asked 

she. 

Perhaps I will house myself, also,” he re¬ 
plied. ‘‘Perhaps take yonder proud redcoat’s 
counsel, and shoot him behind a hedge.” 

“ But not kill him outright; I suppose he 
has a mother and a sweetheart, the handsome 
young officer,” murmured Rose pityingly to 
herself. 

Septimius went into his house, and sat in his 
study for some hours, in that unpleasant state 
96 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


of feeling which a man of brooding thought is 
apt to experience when the world around him 
is in a state of intense action, which he finds it 
impossible to sympathize with. There seemed 
to be a stream rushing past him, by which, even 
if he plunged into the midst of it, he could not 
be wet. He felt himself strangely ajar with the 
human race, and would have given much either 
to be in full accord with it, or to be separated 
from it forever. 

‘‘ I am dissevered from it. It is my doom to 
be only a spectator of life; to look on as one 
apart from it. Is it not well, therefore, that, 
sharing none of its pleasures and happiness, I 
should be free of its fatalities, its brevity? How 
cold I am now, while this whirlpool of public 
feeling is eddying around me! It is as if I had 
not been born of woman 1 ” 

Thus it was that, drawing wild inferences from 
phenomena of the mind and heart common 
to people who, by some morbid action within 
themselves, are set ajar with the world, Septi- 
mius continued still to come round to that strange 
idea of undyingness which had recently taken 
possession of him. And yet he was wrong in 
thinking himself cold, and that he felt no sym¬ 
pathy in the fever of patriotism that was throb¬ 
bing through his countrymen. He was restless 
as a flame; he could not fix his thoughts upon 
his book ; he could not sit in his chair, but kept 
97 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

pacing to and fro, while through the open win¬ 
dow came noises to which his imagination gave 
diverse interpretation. Now it was a distant 
drum; now shouts ; by and by there came the 
rattle of musketry, that seemed to proceed from 
some point more distant than the village; a reg¬ 
ular roll, then a ragged volley, then scattering 
shots. Unable any longer to preserve this un¬ 
natural indifference, Septimius snatched his gun, 
and, rushing out of the house, climbed the ab¬ 
rupt hillside behind, whence he could see a long 
way towards the village, till a slight bend hid 
the uneven road. It was quite vacant, not a 
passenger upon it. But there seemed to be 
confusion in that direction; an unseen and in¬ 
scrutable trouble, blowing thence towards him, 
intimated by vague sounds, — by no sounds. 
Listening eagerly, however, he at last fancied a 
mustering sound of the drum; then it seemed 
as if it were coming towards him; while in ad¬ 
vance rode another horseman, the same kind of 
headlong messenger, in appearance, who had 
passed the house with his ghastly cry of alarum ; 
then appeared scattered countrymen, with guns 
in their hands, straggling across fields. Then he 
caught sight of the regular array of British sol¬ 
diers, filling the road with their front, and march¬ 
ing along as firmly as ever, though at a quick 
pace, while he fancied that the officers looked 
watchfully around. As he looked, a shot rang 

98 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


sharp from the hillside towards the village; the 
smoke curled up, and Septimius saw a man stag¬ 
ger and fall in the midst of the troops. Septi¬ 
mius shuddered; it was so like murder that he 
really could not tell the difference ; his knees 
trembled beneath him; his breath grew short, 
not with terror, but with some new sensation of 
awe. 

Another shot or two came almost simultane¬ 
ously from the wooded height, but without any 
effect that Septimius could perceive. Almost at 
the same moment a company of the British sol¬ 
diers wheeled from the main body, and, dashing 
out of the road, climbed the hill, and disap¬ 
peared into the wood and shrubbery that veiled 
it. There were a few straggling shots, by whom 
fired, or with what effect, was invisible, and mean¬ 
while the main body of the enemy proceeded 
along the road. They had now advanced so 
nigh that Septimius was strangely assailed by 
the idea that he might, with the gun in his hand, 
fire right into the midst of them, and select any 
man of that now hostile band to be a victim. 
How strange, how strange it is, this deep, wild 
passion that nature has implanted in us to be 
the death of our fellow creatures, and which co¬ 
exists at the same time with horror ! Septimius 
levelled his weapon, and drew it up again; he 
marked a mounted officer, who seemed to be in 
chief command, whom he knew that he could 
99 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


kill. But no ! he had really no such purpose. 
Only it was such a temptation. And in a mo¬ 
ment the horse would leap, the officer would 
fall and lie there in the dust of the road, bleed¬ 
ing, gasping, breathing in spasms, breathing no 
more. 

While the young man, in these unusual cir¬ 
cumstances, stood watching the marching of the 
troops, he heard the noise of rustling boughs 
and the voices of men, and soon understood that 
the party, which he had seen separate itself from 
the main body and ascend the hill, was now 
marching along on the hilltop, the long ridge 
which, with a gap or two, extended as much as 
a mile from the village. One of these gaps oc¬ 
curred a little way from where Septimius stood. 
They were acting as flank guard, to prevent the 
uproused people from coming so close to the 
main body as to fire upon it. He looked and 
saw that the detachment of British was plun¬ 
ging down one side of this gap, with intent 
to ascend the other, so that they would pass 
directly over the spot where he stood; a slight 
removal to one side, among the small bushes, 
would conceal him. He stepped aside, accord¬ 
ingly, and from his concealment, not without 
drawing quicker breaths, beheld the party draw 
near. They were more intent upon the space 
between them and the main body than upon the 
dense thicket of birch-trees, pitch pines, sumach, 
100 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and dwarf oaks, which, scarcely yet beginning 
to bud into leaf, lay on the other side, and in 
which Septimius lurked. 

[Describe how their faces affected hiniy passing 
so near ; how strange they seemed,~\ 

They had all passed, except an officer who 
brought up the rear, and who had perhaps been * 
attracted by some slight motion that Septimius 
made, — some rustle in the thicket; for he 
stopped, fixed his eyes piercingly towards the 
spot where he stood, and levelled a light fusil 
which he carried. Stand out, or I shoot,** 
said he. 

Not to avoid the shot, but because his man¬ 
hood felt a call upon it not to skulk in obscurity 
from an open enemy, Septimius at once stood 
forth, and confronted the same handsome young 
officer with whom those fierce words had passed 
on account of his rudeness to Rose Garfield. 
Septimius*s fierce Indian blood stirred in him, 
and gave a murderous excitement. 

‘‘ Ah, it is you ! ** said the young officer, with 
a haughty smile. “ You meant, then, to take 
up with my hint of shooting at me from behind 
a hedge ? This is better. Come, we have in 
the first place the great quarrel between me, a 
king*s soldier, and you, a rebel; next our private 
affair, on account of yonder pretty girl. Come, 
let us take a shot on either score ! ** 

The young officer was so handsome, so beau- 

lOI 


r 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


tiful, in budding youth; there was such a free, 
gay petulance in his manner; there seemed so 
little of real evil in him; he put himself on 
equal ground with the rustic Septimius so gen¬ 
erously, that the latter, often so morbid and sul¬ 
len, never felt a greater kindness for fellow man 
than at this moment for this youth. 

‘‘ I have no enmity towards you,” said he ; 

go in peace.” 

“No enmity ! ” replied the officer. “ Then 
why were you here with your gun amongst the 
shrubbery ? But I have a mind to do my first 
deed of arms on you; so give up your weapon, 
and come with me as prisoner.” 

“A prisoner!” cried Septimius, that Indian 
fierceness that was in him arousing itself, and 
thrusting up its malign head like a snake. 
“ Never! If you would have me, you must 
take my dead body.” 

“ Ah wel^l, you have pluck in you, I see; only 
it needs a considerable stirring. Come, this is 
a good quarrel of ours. Let us fight it out. 
Stand where you are, and I will give the word 
of command. Now ; ready, aim, fire 1 ” 

As the young officer spoke the three last 
words, in rapid succession, he and his antagonist 
brought their firelocks to the shoulder, aimed 
and fired. Septimius felt, as it were, the sting 
of a gadfly passing across his temple, as the Eng¬ 
lishman’s bullet grazed it; but, to his surprise 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and horror (for the whole thing scarcely seemed 
real to him), he saw the officer give a great start, 
drop his fusil, and stagger against a tree, with 
his hand to his breast. .He endeavored to sup¬ 
port himself erect, but, failing in the effort, beck¬ 
oned to Septim'us. 

“ Come, my good friend,” said he, with that 
playful, petulant smile flitting over his face again. 

It is my first and last fight. Let me down as 
softly as you can on mother earth, the mother 
of both you and me ; so we are brothers; and 
this may be a brotherly act, though it does not 
look so, nor feel so. Ah! that was a twinge 
indeed ! ” 

“ Good God ! ” exclaimed Septimius, I had 
no thought of this, no malice towards you in 
the least! ” 

Nor I towards you,” said the young man. 

It was boy's play, and the end of it is that I 
die a boy, instead of living forever, as perhaps 
I otherwise might.” 

“ Living forever! ” repeated Septimius, his 
attention arrested, even at that breathless mo¬ 
ment, by words that rang so strangely on what 
had been his brooding thought. 

“ Yes ; but I have lost my chance,” said the 
young officer. Then, as Septimius helped him 
to lie against the little hillock of a decayed and 
buried stump, Thank you ; thank you. If 
you could only call back one of my comrades 
103 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


to hear my dying words. But I forgot. You 
have killed me, and they would take your life.’’ 

In truth, Septimius was so moved and so 
astonished, that he probably would have called 
back the young man’s comrades, had it been pos¬ 
sible ; but, marching at the swift rate of men in 
peril, they had already gone far onward, in their 
passage through the shrubbery that had ceased 
to rustle behind them. 

“ Yes ; I must die here! ” said the young man, 
with a forlorn expression, as of a schoolboy far 
away from home, “ and nobody to see me now 
but you, who have killed me. Could you fetch 
me a drop of water ? I have a great thirst.” 

Septimius, in a dream of horror and pity, 
rushed down the hillside; the house was empty, 
for Aunt Keziah had gone for shelter and sym¬ 
pathy to some of the neighbors. He filled a jug 
with cold water, and hurried back to the hilltop, 
finding the young officer looking paler and more 
deathlike within those few moments. 

“ I thank you, my enemy that was, my friend 
that is,” murmured he, faintly smiling. ‘‘ Me- 
thinks, next to the father and mother that gave 
us birth, the next most intimate relation must 
be with the man that slays us, who introduces 
us to the mysterious world to which this is but 
the portal. You and I are singularly connected, 
doubt it not, in the scenes of the unknown 
world.” 

104 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


O, believe me,” cried Septimius, I grieve 
for you like a brother ! ** 

“ I see it, my dear friend,** said the young offi¬ 
cer ; and though my blood is on your hands, 
I forgive you freely, if there is anything to for¬ 
give. But I am dying, and have a few words 
to say, which you must hear. You have slain 
me in fair fight, and my spoils, according to the 
rules and customs of warfare, belong to the vic¬ 
tor. Hang up my sword and fusil over your 
chimney place, and tell your children, twenty 
years hence, how they were won. My purse, 
keep it or give it to the poor. There is some¬ 
thing, here next my heart, which I would fain 
have sent to the address which I will give you.** 
Septimius, obeying his directions, took from 
his breast a miniature that hung round it; but, 
on examination, it proved that the bullet had 
passed directly through it, shattering the ivory, 
so that the woman’s face it represented was quite 
destroyed. 

“ Ah ! that is a pity,** said the young man; 
and yet Septimius thought that there was some¬ 
thing light and contemptuous mingled with the 
pathos in his tones. Well, but send it; cause 
it to be transmitted, according to the address.** 
He gave Septimius, and made him take down 
on a tablet which he had about him, the name 
of a hall in one of the midland counties of Eng¬ 
land. 


105 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Ah, that old place/’ said he, with its oaks, 
and its lawn, and its park, and its Elizabethan 
gables ! I little thought I should die here, so 
far away, in this barren Yankee land. Where 
will you bury me ? ” 

As Septimius hesitated to answer, the young 
man continued : I would like to have lain in 
the little old church at Whitnash, which comes 
up before me now, with its low, gray tower, and 
the old yew-tree in front, hollow with age, and 
the village clustering about it, with its thatched 
houses. I would be loath to lie in one of your 
Yankee graveyards, for I have a distaste for 
them, — though I love you, my slayer. Bury 
me here, on this very spot. A soldier lies best 
where he falls.” 

Here, in secret? ” exclaimed Septimius. 

‘‘Yes ; there Is no consecration in your Puri¬ 
tan burial grounds,” said the dying youth, some 
of that queer narrowness of English Churchism 
coming into his mind. “ So bury me here, in 
my soldier’s dress. Ah ! and my watch ! I 
have done with time, and you, perhaps, have a 
long lease of it; so take it, not as spoil, but 
as my parting gift. And that reminds me of 
one other thing. Open that pocketbook which 
you have in your hand.” 

Septimius did so, and by the officer’s direction 
took from one of its compartments a folded 
paper, closely written in a crabbed hand; it was 
io6 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


considerably worn in the outer folds, but not 
within. There was also a small silver key in 
the pocketbook. 

“ I leave it with you/* said the officer; ‘‘ it was 
given me by an uncle, a learned man of science, 
who intended me great good by what he there 
wrote. Reap the profit, if you can. Sooth to 
say, I never read beyond the first lines of the 
paper.** 

Septimius was surprised, or deeply impressed, 
to see that through this paper, as well as through 
the miniature, had gone his fatal bullet,— 
straight through the midst; and some of the 
young man*s blood, saturating his dress, had wet 
the paper all over. He hardly thought himself 
likely to derive any good from what it had cost 
a human life, taken (however uncriminally) by 
his own hands, to obtain. 

‘‘Is there anything more that I can do for 
you ? ** asked he, with genuine sympathy and 
sorrow, as he knelt by his fallen foe*s side. 

“Nothing, nothing, I believe,** said he. 
“ There was one thing I might have confessed; 
if there were a holy man here, I might have con¬ 
fessed, and asked his prayers ; for though I have 
lived few years, it has been long enough to do a 
great wrong. But I will try to pray in my secret 
soul. Turn my face towards the trunk of the 
tree, for I have taken my last look at the world. 
There, let me be now.** 

107 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Septimius did as the young man requested, 
and then stood leaning against one of the neigh¬ 
boring pines, watching his victim with a tender 
concern that made him feel as if the convulsive 
throes that passed through his frame were felt 
equally in his own. There was a murmuring 
from the youth's lips which seemed to Septimius 
swift, soft, and melancholy, like the voice of a 
child when it has some naughtiness to confess 
to its mother at bedtime; contrite, pleading, yet 
trusting. So it continued for a few minutes; 
then there was a sudden start and struggle, as 
if he were striving to rise ; his eyes met those of 
Septimius with a wild, troubled gaze, but as the 
latter caught him in his arms he was dead. Sep¬ 
timius laid the body softly down on the leaf- 
strewn earth, and tried, as he had heard was the 
custom with the dead, to compose the features 
distorted by the dying agony. He then flung 
himself on the ground at a little distance, and 
gave himself up to the reflections suggested by 
the strange occurrences of the last hour. 

He had taken a human life; and, however 
the circumstances might excuse him, — might 
make the thing even something praiseworthy, 
and that would be called patriotic, — still, it was 
not at once that a fresh country youth could see 
anything but horror in the blood with which his 
hand was stained. It seemed so dreadful to have 
reduced this gay, animated, beautiful being to a 
io8 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

lump of dead flesh for the flies to settle upon, 
and which in a few hours would begin to decay; 
which must be put forthwith into the earth, lest 
it should be a horror to men's eyes; that deli¬ 
cious beauty for woman to love; that strength 
and courage to make him famous among men, 
— all come to nothing; all probabilities of life 
in one so gifted; the renown, the position, the 
pleasures, the profits, the keen ecstatic joy,— 
this never could be made up, — all ended quite; 
for the dark doubt descended upon Septimius, 
that, because of the very fitness that was in this 
youth to enjoy this world, so much the less 
chance was there of his being fit for any other 
world. What could it do for him there, — this 
beautiful grace and elegance of feature, — where 
there was no form, nothing tangible nor visible ? 
what good that readiness and aptness for associat¬ 
ing with all created things, doing his part, acting, 
enjoying, when, under the changed conditions of 
another state of being, all this adaptedness would 
fail ? Had he been gifted with permanence on 
earth, there could not have been a more admi¬ 
rable creature than this young man; but as his 
fate had turned out, he was a mere grub, an illu¬ 
sion, something that nature had held out in 
mockery, and then withdrawn. A weed might 
grow from his dust now; that little spot on the 
barren hilltop, where he had desired to be bur¬ 
ied, would be greener for some years to come, 
109 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and that was all the difference. Septimius could 
not get beyond the earthiness ; his feeling was 
as if, by an act of violence, he had forever cut 
off a happy human existence. And such was his 
own love of life and clinging to it, peculiar to 
dark, sombre natures, and which lighter and 
gayer ones can never know, that he shuddered 
at his deed, and at himself, and could with diffi¬ 
culty bear to be alone with the corpse of his 
victim, — trembled at the thought of turning 
his face towards him. 

Yet he did so, because he could not endure 
the imagination that the dead youth was turn¬ 
ing his eyes towards him as he lay; so he came 
and stood beside him, looking down into his 
white, upturned face. But it was wonderful! 
What a change had come over it since, only a 
few moments ago, he looked at that death-con¬ 
torted countenance ! Now there was a high 
and sweet expression upon it, of great joy and 
surprise, and yet a quietude diffused through¬ 
out, as if the peace being so very great was what 
had surprised him. The expression was like a 
light gleaming and glowing within him. Sep¬ 
timius had often, at a certain space of time after 
sunset, looking westward, seen a living radiance 
in the sky, — the last light of the dead day that 
seemed just the counterpart of this death light 
in the young man's face. It was as if the youth 
were just at the gate of heaven, which, swinging 
no 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


softly open, let the inconceivable glory of the 
blessed city shine upon his face, and kindle it 
up with gentle, undisturbing astonishment and 
purest joy. It was an expression contrived by 
God's providence to comfort; to overcome all 
the dark auguries that the physical ugliness of 
death inevitably creates, and to prove by the 
divine glory on the face, that the ugliness is a 
delusion. It was as if the dead man himself 
showed his face out of the sky, with heaven's 
blessing on it, and bade the afflicted be of good 
cheer, and believe in immortality. 

Septimius remembered the young man's in¬ 
junctions to bury him there, on the hill, with¬ 
out uncovering the body ; and though it seemed 
a sin and shame to cover up that beautiful body 
with earth of the grave, and give it to the worm, 
yet he resolved to obey. 

Be it confessed that, beautiful as the dead 
form looked, and guiltless as Septimius must be 
held in causing his death, still he felt as if he 
should be eased when it was under the ground. 
He hastened down to the house, and brought 
up a shovel and a pickaxe, and began his un¬ 
wonted task of grave-digging, delving earnestly 
a deep pit, sometimes pausing in his toil, while 
the sweat drops poured from him, to look at 
the beautiful clay that was to occupy it. Some¬ 
times he paused, too, to listen to the shots that 
pealed in the far distance, towards the east, 

III 


i 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


whither the battle had long since rolled out of 
reach and almost out of hearing. It seemed to 
have gathered about itself the whole life of the 
land, attending it along its bloody course in a 
struggling throng of shouting, shooting men, so 
still and solitary was everything left behind it. 
It seemed the very midland solitude of the 
world where Septimius was delving at the grave. 
He and his dead were alone together, and he 
was going to put the body under the sod, and 
be quite alone. 

The grave was now deep, and Septimius was 
stooping down into its depths among dirt and 
pebbles, levelling off the bottom, which he con¬ 
sidered to be profound enough to hide the 
young man’s mystery forever, when a voice 
spoke above him ; a solemn, quiet voice, which 
he knew well. 

“ Septimius ! what are you doing here ? ” 

He looked up and saw the minister. 

I have slain a man in fair fight,” answered 
he, “ and am about to bury him as he requested. 
I am glad you are come. You, reverend sir, 
can fitly say a prayer at his obsequies. I am 
glad for my own sake ; for it is very lonely and 
terrible to be here.” 

He climbed out of the grave, and, in reply to 
the minister’s inquiries, communicated to him 
the events of the morning, and the youth’s 
strange wish to be buried here, without having 

II2 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


his remains subjected to the hands of those who 
would prepare it for the grave. The minister 
hesitated. 

At an ordinary time,” said he, “ such a sin¬ 
gular request would of course have to be refused. 
Your own safety, the good and wise rules that 
make it necessary that all things relating to 
death and burial should be done publicly and 
in order, would forbid it.” 

“Yes,” replied Septimius ; “ but, it may be, 
scores of men will fall to-day, and be flung into 
hasty graves without funeral rites ; without its 
ever being known, perhaps, what mother has 
lost her son. I cannot but think that I ought 
to perform the dying request of the youth whom 
I have slain. He trusted in me not to uncover 
his body myself, nor to betray it to the hands 
of others.” 

“ A singular request,” said the good minis¬ 
ter, gazing with deep interest at the beautiful 
dead face, and graceful, slender, manly figure. 
“ What could have been its motive ? But no 
matter. I think, Septimius, that you are bound 
to obey his request; indeed, having promised 
him, nothing short of an impossibility should 
prevent your keeping your faith. Let us lose 
no time, then.” 

With few but deeply solemn rites the young 
stranger was laid by the minister and the youth 
who slew him in his grave. A prayer was made. 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and then Septimius, gathering some branches 
and twigs, spread them over the face that was 
turned upward from the bottom of the pit, into 
which the sun gleamed downward, throwing its 
rays so as almost to touch it. The twigs par¬ 
tially hid it, but still its white shone through. 
Then the minister threw a handful of earth 
upon it, and, accustomed as he was to burials, 
tears fell from his eyes along with the mould. 

‘‘ It is sad,” said he, this poor young man, 
coming from opulence, no doubt, a dear Eng¬ 
lish home, to die here for no end, one of the 
first fruits of a bloody war, — so much privately 
sacrificed. But let him rest, Septimius. I am 
sorry that he fell by your hand, though it in¬ 
volves no shadow of a crime. But death is a 
thing too serious not to melt into the nature of 
a man like you.” 

It does not weigh upon my conscience, I 
think,” said Septimius; “ though I cannot but 
feel sorrow, and wish my hand were as clean as 
yesterday. It is, indeed, a dreadful thing to 
take human life.” 

“ It is a most serious thing,” replied the min¬ 
ister ; “ but perhaps we are apt to overestimate 
the importance of death at any particular mo¬ 
ment. If the question were whether to die or 
to live forever, then, indeed, scarcely anything 
should justify the putting a fellow creature to 
death. But since it only shortens his earthly 
114 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


life, and brings a little forward a change which, 
since God permits it, is, we may conclude, as 
fit to take place then as at any other time, it 
alters the case. I often think that there are 
many things that occur to us in our daily life, 
many unknown crises, that are more important 
to us than this mysterious circumstance of death, 
which we deem the most important of all. All 
we understand of it is, that it takes the dead 
person away from our knowledge of him, which, 
while we live with him, is so very scanty.” 

‘‘ You estimate at nothing, it seems, his 
earthly life, which might have been so happy.” 

At next to nothing,” said the minister, 
“ since, as I have observed, it must, at any rate, 
have closed so soon.” 

Septimius thought of what the young man, 
in his last moments, had said of his prospect 
or opportunity of living a life of interminable 
length, and which prospect he had bequeathed 
to himself. But of this he did not speak to the 
minister, being, indeed, ashamed to have it sup¬ 
posed that he would put any serious weight on 
such a bequest, although it might be that the 
dark enterprise of his nature had secretly seized 
upon this idea, and, though yet sane enough 
to be influenced by a fear of ridicule, was busy 
incorporating it with his thoughts. 

So Septimius smoothed down the young 
stranger’s earthy bed, and returned to his home, 

115 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


where he hung up the sword over the mantel¬ 
piece in his study, and hung the gold watch, too, 
on a nail, — the first time he had ever had pos¬ 
session of such a thing. Nor did he now feel 
altogether at ease in his mind about keeping it, 

— the time-measurer of one whose mortal life 
he had cut off. A splendid watch it was, round 
as a turnip. There seems to be a natural right 
in one who has slain a man to step into his va¬ 
cant place in all respects; and from the begin¬ 
ning of man's dealings with man this right has 
been practically recognized, whether among war¬ 
riors or robbers, as paramount to every other. 
Yet Septimius could not feel easy in availing 
himself of this right. He therefore resolved to 
keep the watch, and even the sword and fusil, 

— which were less questionable spoils of war, — 
only till he should be able to restore them to 
some representative of the young officer. The 
contents of the purse, in accordance with the 
request of the dying youth, he would expend in 
relieving the necessities of those whom the war 
(now broken out, and of which no one could 
see the limit) might put in need of it. The 
miniature, with its broken and shattered face, 
that had so vainly interposed itself between its 
wearer and death, had been sent to its address. 

But as to the mysterious document, the writ¬ 
ten paper, that he had laid aside without un¬ 
folding it, but with a care that betokened more 
116 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


interest in it than in either gold or weapon, or 
even in the golden representative of that earthly 
time on which he set so high a value. There 
was something tremulous in his touch of it; it 
seemed as if he were afraid of it by the mode in 
which he hid it away, and secured himself from 
it, as it were. 

This done, the air of the room, the low-ceiL 
inged eastern room where he studied and 
thought, became too close for him, and he has¬ 
tened out; for he was full of the unshaped sense 
of all that had befallen, and the perception of 
the great public event of a broken-out war was 
intermixed with that of what he had done per¬ 
sonally in the great struggle that was beginning. 
He longed, too, to know what was the news of 
the battle that had gone rolling onward along 
the hitherto peaceful country road, converting 
everywhere (this demon of war, we mean), with 
one blast of its red sulphurous breath, the peace¬ 
ful husbandman to a soldier thirsting for blood. 
He turned his steps, therefore, towards the vil¬ 
lage, thinking it probable that news must have 
arrived either of defeat or victory, from messen¬ 
gers or fliers, to cheer or sadden the old men, 
the women, and the children, who alone perhaps 
remained there. 

But Septimius did not get to the village. As 
he passed along by the cottage that has been 
already described. Rose Garfield was standing 
117 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


at the door, peering anxiously forth to know 
what was the issue of the conflict, — as it has 
been woman’s fate to do from the beginning of 
the world, and is so still. Seeing Septimius, 
she forgot the restraint that she had hitherto 
kept herself under, and, flying at him like a 
bird, she cried out, Septimius, dear Septimius, 
where have you been ? What news do you 
bring? You look as if you had seen some 
strange and dreadful thing.” 

‘‘ Ah, is it so ? Does my face tell such 
stories ? ” exclaimed the young man. I did 
not mean it should. Yes, Rose, I have seen 
and done such things as change a man in a 
moment.” 

Then you have been in this terrible fight,” 
said Rose. 

Yes, Rose, I have had my part in it,” an¬ 
swered Septimius. 

He was on the point of relieving his over¬ 
burdened mind by telling her what had hap¬ 
pened no farther off than on the hill above them; 
but, seeing her excitement, and recollecting her 
own momentary interview with the young offi¬ 
cer, and the forced intimacy and link that had 
been established between them by the kiss, he 
feared to agitate her further by telling her that 
that gay and beautiful young man had since 
been slain, and deposited in a bloody grave by 
his hands. And yet the recollection of that kiss 

ii8 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


caused a thrill of vengeful joy at the thought 
that the perpetrator had since expiated his of¬ 
fence with his life, and that it was himself that 
did it, so deeply was Septimius’s Indian nature 
of revenge and blood incorporated with that of 
more peaceful forefathers, although Septimius 
had grace enough to chide down that bloody 
spirit, feeling that it made him, not a patriot, 
but a murderer. 

“Ah,” said Rose, shuddering, “it is awful 
when we must kill one another! And who 
knows where it will end ? ” 

“ With me it will end here. Rose,” said Sep¬ 
timius. “It may be lawful for any man, even 
if he have devoted himself to God, or however 
peaceful his pursuits, to fight to the death when 
the enemy's step is on the soil of his home ; but 
only for that perilous juncture, which passed, 
he should return to his own way of peace. I 
have done a terrible thing for once, dear Rose, 
one that might well trace a dark line through 
all my future life; but henceforth I cannot think 
it my duty to pursue any further a work for 
which my studies and my nature unfit me.” 

“ O no ! O no ! ” said Rose ; “ never ! and 
you a minister, or soon to be one. There must 
be some peacemakers left in the world, or every¬ 
thing will turn to blood and confusion; for even 
women grow dreadfully fierce in these times. 
My old grandmother laments her bedridden- 
119 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ness, because, she says, she cannot go to cheer 
on the people against the enemy. But she re¬ 
members the old times of the Indian wars, when 
the women were as much in danger of death 
as the men, and so were almost as fierce as they, 
and killed men sometimes with their own hands. 
But women, nowadays, ought to be gentler ; let 
the men be fierce, if they must, except you, and 
such as you, Septimius.’' 

“ Ah, dear Rose,” said Septimius, I have 
not the kind and sweet impulses that you speak 
of. I need something to soften and warm my 
cold, hard life ; something to make me feel how 
dreadful this time of warfare is. I need you, 
dear Rose, who are all kindness of heart and 
mercy.” 

And here Septimius, hurried away by I know 
not what excitement of the time, — the dis¬ 
turbed state of the country, his own ebullition 
of passion, the deed he had done, the desire to 
press one human being close to his life, because 
he had shed the blood of another, his half- 
formed purposes, his shapeless impulses ; in 
short, being affected by the whole stir of his 
nature, — spoke to Rose of love, and with an 
energy that, indeed, there was no resisting when 
once it broke bounds. And Rose,whose maiden 
thoughts, to say the truth, had long dwelt upon 
this young man, — admiring him for a certain 
dark beauty, knowing him familiarly from child- 
120 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


hood, and yet having the sense, that Is so be¬ 
witching, of remoteness. Intermixed with Inti¬ 
macy, because he was so unlike herself; having 
a woman’s respect for scholarship, her Imagina¬ 
tion the more Impressed by all In him that she 
could not comprehend, — Rose yielded to his 
Impetuous suit, and gave him the troth that he 
requested. And yet It was with a sort of re¬ 
luctance and drawing back ; her whole nature, 
her secretest heart, her deepest womanhood, 
perhaps, did not consent. There was some¬ 
thing In Septimius, In his wild, mixed nature, 
the monstrousness that had grown out of his 
hybrid race, the black infusions, too, which 
melancholic men had left there, the devilishness 
that had been symbolized in the popular re¬ 
gard about his family, that made her shiver, 
even while she came the closer to him for that 
very dread. And when he gave her the kiss 
of betrothment her lips grew white. If it had 
not been in the day of turmoil, if he had asked 
her in any quiet time, when Rose’s heart was in 
its natural mood, it may well be that, with tears 
and pity for him, and half-pity for herself. Rose 
would have told Septimius that she did not 
think she could love him well enough to be his 
wife. 

And how was it with Septimius ? Well, there 
was a singular correspondence in his feelings to 
those of Rose Garfield. At first, carried away 

I2I ^ 


£ 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


by a passion that seized him all unawares, and 
seemed to develop itself all in a moment, he 
felt, and so spoke to Rose, so pleaded his suit, 
as if his whole earthly happiness depended on 
her consent to be his bride. It seemed to him 
that her love would be the sunshine in the 
gloomy dungeon of his life. But when her 
bashful, downcast, tremulous consent was given, 
then immediately came a strange misgiving into 
his mind. He felt as if he had taken to him¬ 
self something good and beautiful doubtless in 
itself, but which might be the exchange for one 
more suited to him, that he must now give up. 
The intellect, which was the prominent point 
in Septimius, stirred and heaved, crying out 
vaguely that its own claims, perhaps, were ig¬ 
nored in this contract. Septimius had perhaps 
no right to love at all; if he did, it should have 
been a woman of another make, who could be 
his intellectual companion and helper. And 
then, perchance, — perchance, — there was de¬ 
stined for him some high, lonely path, in which, 
to make any progress, to come to any end, he 
must walk unburdened by the affections. Such 
thoughts as these depressed and chilled (as 
many men have found them, or similar ones, 
to do) the moment of success that should have 
been the most exulting in the world. And so, 
in the kiss which these two lovers had exchanged 
there was, after all, something that repelled; and 
122 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


when they parted they wondered at their strange 
states of mind, but would not acknowledge that 
they had done a thing that ought not to have 
been done. Nothing is surer, however, than 
that, if we suffer ourselves to be drawn into 
too close proximity with people, if we over¬ 
estimate the degree of our proper tendency 
towards them, or theirs towards us, a reaction 
is sure to follow. 

Septimius quitted Rose, and resumed his walk 
towards the village. But now it was near sun¬ 
set, and there began to be straggling passengers 
along the road, some of whom came slowly, as 
if they had received hurts; all seemed wearied. 
Among them one form appeared which Rose 
soon found that she recognized. It was Rob¬ 
ert Hagburn, with a shattered firelock in his 
hand, broken at the butt, and his left arm bound 
with a fragment of his shirt, and suspended in 
a handkerchief; and he walked weariedly, but 
brightened up at sight of Rose, as if ashamed 
to let her see how exhausted and dispirited he 
was. Perhaps he expected a smile, at least a 
more earnest reception than he met; for Rose, 
with the restraint of what had recently passed 
drawing her back, merely went gravely a few 
steps to meet him, and said, Robert, how 
tired and pale you look ! Are you hurt ? ” 

It is of no consequence,*' replied Robert 
123 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Hagburn; a scratch on my left arm from an 
officer’s sword, with whose head my gunstock 
made instant acquaintance. It is no matter, 
Rose; you do not care for it, nor do I either.” 

How can you say so, Robert ? ” she re¬ 
plied. But without more greeting he passed 
her, and went into his own house, where, fling¬ 
ing himself into a chair, he remained in that de¬ 
spondency that men generally feel after a fight, 
even if a successful one. 

Septimius, the next day, lost no time in writ¬ 
ing a letter to the direction given him by the 
young officer, conveying a brief account of the 
latter’s death and burial, and a signification that 
he held in readiness to give up certain articles 
of property, at any future time, to his represent¬ 
atives, mentioning also the amount of money 
contained in the purse, and his intention, in 
compliance with the verbal will of the deceased, 
to expend it in alleviating the wants of prison¬ 
ers. Having so done, he went up on the hill 
to look at the grave, and satisfy himself that 
the scene there had not been a dream; a point 
which he was inclined to question, in spite of 
the tangible evidence of the sword and watch, 
which still hung over the mantelpiece. There 
was the little mound, however, looking so in- 
controvertibly a grave, that it seemed to him as 
if all the world must see it, and wonder at the 
fact of its being there, and spend their wits in 
124 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


conjecturing who slept within ; and, indeed, it 
seemed to give the affair a questionable char¬ 
acter, this secret burial, and he wondered and 
wondered why the young man had been so ear¬ 
nest about it. Well, there was the grave ; and, 
moreover, on the leafy earth, where the dying 
youth had lain, there were traces of blood, 
which no rain had yet washed away. Septimius 
wondered at the easiness with which he acqui¬ 
esced in this deed ; in fact, he felt in a slight 
degree the effects of that taste of blood, which 
makes the slaying of men, like any other abuse, 
sometimes become a passion. Perhaps it was 
his Indian trait stirring in him again; at any 
rate, it is not delightful to observe how readily 
man becomes a blood-shedding animal. 

Looking down from the hilltop, he saw the 
little dwelling of Rose Garfield, and caught a 
glimpse of the girl herself, passing the windows 
or the door, about her household duties, and 
listened to hear the singing which usually broke 
out of her. But Rose, for some reason or other, 
did not warble as usual this morning. She trod 
about silently, and somehow or other she was 
translated out of the ideality in which Septi¬ 
mius usually enveloped her, and looked little 
more than a New England girl, very pretty in¬ 
deed, but not enough so, perhaps, to engross 
a man's life and higher purposes into her own 
narrow circle ; so, at least, Septimius thought. 

125 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Looking a little farther, — down into the green 
recess where stood Robert Hagburn's house, 
— he saw that young man, looking very pale, 
with his arm in a sling, sitting listlessly on a 
half-chopped log of wood which was not likely 
soon to be severed by Robert's axe. Like 
other lovers, Septimius had not failed to be 
aware that Robert Hagburn was sensible to 
Rose Garfield's attractions; and now, as he 
looked down on them both from his elevated 
position, he wondered if it would not have been 
better for Rose's happiness if her thoughts and 
virgin fancies had settled on that frank, cheer¬ 
ful, able, wholesome young man, instead of on 
himself, who met her on so few points; and in 
relation to whom there was perhaps a plant, 
that had its root in the grave, that would en¬ 
twine itself around his whole life, overshadow¬ 
ing it with dark, rich foliage and fruit that he 
alone could feast upon. 

For the sombre imagination of Septimius, 
though he kept it as much as possible away 
from the subject, still kept hinting and whisper¬ 
ing, still coming back to the point, still secretly 
suggesting that the event of yesterday was to 
have momentous consequences upon his fate. 

He had not yet looked at the paper which 
the young man bequeathed to him; he had 
laid it away unopened; not that he felt little 
interest in it, but, on the contrary, because he 
126 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


looked for some blaze of light which had been 
reserved for him alone. The young officer had 
been only the bearer of it to him, and he had 
come hither to die by his hand, because that 
was the readiest way by which he could deliver 
his message. How else, in the infinite chances 
of human affairs, could the document have 
found its way to its destined possessor ? Thus 
mused Septimius, pacing to and fro on the 
level edge of his hilltop, apart from the world, 
looking down occasionally into it, and seeing 
its love and interest away from him; while 
Rose, it might be, looking upward, saw occa¬ 
sionally his passing figure, and trembled at the 
nearness and remoteness that existed between 
them; and Robert Hagburn looked too, and 
wondered what manner of man it was who, 
having won Rose Garfield (for his instinct told 
him this was so), could keep that distance be¬ 
tween her and him, thinking remote thoughts. 

Yes; there was Septimius treading a path of 
his own on the hilltop ; his feet began only 
that morning to wear it in his walking to and 
fro, sheltered from the lower world, except in 
occasional glimpses, by the birches and locusts 
that threw up their foliage from the hillside. 
But many a year thereafter he continued to 
tread that path, till it was worn deep with his 
footsteps and trodden down hard; and it was 
believed by some of his superstitious neighbors 
127 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


that the grass and little shrubs shrank away 
from his path, and made it wider on that ac¬ 
count; because there was something in the 
broodings that urged him to and fro along the 
path alien to nature and its productions. There 
was another opinion, too, that an invisible fiend, 
one of his relatives by blood, walked side by 
side with him, and so made the pathway wider 
than his single footsteps could have made it. 
But all this was idle, and was, indeed, only the 
foolish babble that hovers like a mist about 
men who withdraw themselves from the throng, 
and involve themselves in unintelligible pur¬ 
suits and interests of their own. For the pre¬ 
sent, the small world, which alone knew of him, 
considered Septimius as a studious young man, 
who was fitting for the ministry, and was likely 
enough to do credit to the ministerial blood 
that he drew from his ancestors, in spite of the 
wild stream that the Indian priest had con¬ 
tributed ; and perhaps none the worse, as a 
clergyman, for having an instinctive sense of 
the nature of the Devil from his traditionary 
claims to partake of his blood. But what 
strange interest there is in tracing out the first 
steps by which we enter on a career that influ¬ 
ences our life ! and this deep-worn pathway on 
the hilltop, passing and repassing by a grave, 
seemed to symbolize it in Septimius’s case. 

I suppose the morbidness of Septimius’s dis- 
128 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


position was excited by the circumstances which 
had put the paper into his possession. Had he 
received it by post, it might not have impressed 
him; he might possibly have looked over it 
with ridicule, and tossed it aside. But he had 
taken it from a dying man, and he felt that his 
fate was in it; and truly it turned out to be so. 
He waited for a fit opportunity to open it and 
read it; he put it off as if he cared nothing 
about it; perhaps it was because he cared so 
much. Whenever he had a happy time with 
Rose (and, moody as Septimius was, such happy 
moments came), he felt that then was not the 
time to look into the paper, — it was not to be 
read in a happy mood. 

Once he asked Rose to walk with him on 
the hilltop. 

Why, what a path you have worn here, Sep¬ 
timius ! ” said the girl. ‘‘You walk miles and 
miles on this one spot, and get no farther on 
than when you started. That is strange walk- 
ing!” 

“ I don’t know. Rose; I sometimes think I 
get a little onward. But it is sweeter—yes, 
much sweeter, I find — to have you walking on 
this path here than to be treading it alone.” 

“ I am glad of that,” said Rose; “ for some¬ 
times, when I look up here, and see you 
through the branches, with your head bent 
down, and your hands clasped behind you, 
129 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


treading, treading, treading, always in one way, 
I wonder whether I am at all in your mind. I 
don’t think, Septimius,” added she, looking up 
in his face and smiling, that ever a girl had 
just such a young man for a lover.” 

“No young man ever had such a girl, I am 
sure,” said Septimius; “so sweet, so good for 
him, so prolific of good influences ! ” 

“ Ah, it makes me think well of myself to 
bring such a smile into your face ! But, Septi¬ 
mius, what is this little hillock here so close to 
our path ? Have you heaped it up here for a 
seat? Shall we sit down upon it for an instant? 
— for it makes me more tired to walk backward 
and forward on one path than to go straight 
forward a much longer distance.” 

“Well; but we will not sit down on this 
hillock,” said Septimius, drawing her away from 
it. “ Farther out this way, if you please. Rose, 
where we shall have a better view over the wide 
plain, the valley, and the long, tame ridge of 
hills on the other side, shutting it in like human 
life. It is a landscape that never tires, though 
it has nothing striking about it; and I am glad 
that there are no great hills to be thrusting 
themselves into my thoughts, and crowding 
out better things. It might be desirable, in 
some states of mind, to have a glimpse of 
water, — to have the lake that once must have 
130 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


covered this green valley, — because water re¬ 
flects the sky, and so is like religion in life, the 
spiritual element.” 

“There is the brook running through it, 
though we do not see it,” replied Rose; “ a 
torpid little brook, to be sure; but, as you say, 
it has heaven in its bosom, like Walden Pond, 
or any wider one.” 

As they sat together on the hilltop, they 
could look down into Robert Hagburn’s en¬ 
closure, and they saw him, with his arm now 
relieved from the sling, walking about, in a very 
erect manner, with a middle-aged man by his 
side, to whom he seemed to be talking and ex¬ 
plaining some matter. Even at that distance 
Septimius could see that the rustic stoop and 
uncouthness had somehow fallen away from 
Robert, and that he seemed developed. 

“ What has come to Robert Hagburn ? ” said 
he. “ He looks like another man than the lout 
I knew a few weeks ago.” 

“ Nothing,” said Rose Garfield, “ except what 
comes to a good many young men nowadays. 
He has enlisted, and is going to the war. It is 
a pity for his mother.” 

“A great pity,” said Septimius. “ Mothers 
are greatly to be pitied all over the country just 
now, and there are some even more to be pitied 
than the mothers, though many of them do not 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


know or suspect anything about their cause of 
grief at present.” 

“ Of whom do you speak ? ” asked Rose. 

‘‘ I mean those many good and sweet young 
girls,” said Septimius, who would have been 
happy wives to the thousands of young men who 
now, like Robert Hagburn, are going to the war. 
Those young men — many of them at least — 
will sicken and die in camp, or be shot down, 
or struck through with bayonets on battlefields, 
and turn to dust and bones ; while the girls that 
would have loved them, and made happy fire¬ 
sides for them, will pine and wither, and tread 
along many sour and discontented years, and at 
last go out of life without knowing what life is. 
So you see. Rose, every shot that takes effect 
kills two at least, or kills one and worse than 
kills the other.” 

“No woman will live single on account of 
poor Robert Hagburn being shot,” said Rose, 
with a change of tone ; “ for he would never be 
married were he to stay at home and plough the 
field.” 

“ How can you tell that. Rose ? ” asked Sep¬ 
timius. 

Rose did not tell how she came to know so 
much about Robert Hagburn's matrimonial pur¬ 
poses ; but after this little talk it appeared as if 
something had risen up between them, — a sort 
of mist, a medium, in which their intimacy was 
132 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

not increased; for the flow and interchange of 
sentiment was balked, and they took only one or 
two turns in silence along Septimius’s trodden 
path. I don’t know exactly what it was ; but 
there are cases in which it is inscrutably revealed 
to persons that they have made a mistake in what 
is of the highest concern to them ; and this truth 
often comes in the shape of a vague depression of 
the spirit, like a vapor settling down on a land¬ 
scape ; a misgiving, coming and going perhaps, 
a lack of perfect certainty. Whatever it was. Rose 
and Septimius had no more tender and playful 
words that day; and Rose soon went to look 
after her grandmother, and Septimius went and 
shut himself up in his study, after making an 
arrangement to meet Rose the next day. 

Septimius shut himself up, and drew forth the 
document which the young oflicer, with that 
singular smile on his dying face, had bequeathed 
to him as the reward of his death. It was in 
a covering of folded parchment, right through 
which, as aforesaid, was a bullet hole and some 
stains of blood. Septimius unrolled the parch¬ 
ment cover, and found inside a manuscript, 
closely written in a crabbed hand; so crabbed, 
indeed, that Septimius could not at first read 
a word of it, nor even satisfy himself in what 
language it was written. There seemed to be 
Latin words, and some interspersed ones in 

133 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Greek characters, and here and there he could 
doubtfully read an English sentence ; but, on 
the whole, it was an unintelligible mass, convey¬ 
ing somehow an idea that it was the fruit of vast 
labor and erudition, emanating from a mind very 
full of books, and grinding and pressing down 
the great accumulation of grapes that it had 
gathered from so many vineyards, and squeez¬ 
ing out rich viscid juices, — potent wine, — with 
which the reader might get drunk. Some of it, 
moreover, seemed, for the further mystification 
of the officer, to be written in cipher; a needless 
precaution, it might seem, when the writer’s 
natural chirography was so full of puzzle and 
bewilderment. 

Septimius looked at this strange manuscript, 
and it shook in his hands as he held it before 
his eyes, so great was his excitement. Probably, 
doubtless, it was in a great measure owing to the 
way in which it came to him, with such circum¬ 
stances of tragedy and mystery ; as if — so secret 
and so important was it — it could not be within 
the knowledge of two persons at once, and there¬ 
fore it was necessary that one should die in the 
act of transmitting it to the hand of another, 
the destined possessor, inheritor, profiter by it. 
By the bloody hand, as all the great possessions 
in this world have been gained and inherited, 
he had succeeded to the legacy, the richest that 
mortal man ever could receive. He pored over 

134 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

the Inscrutable sentences, and wondered, when 
he should succeed in reading one, if it might 
summon up a subject-fiend, appearing with 
thunder and devilish demonstrations. And by 
what other strange chance had the document 
come into the hand of him who alone was fit to 
receive it ? It seemed to Septimius, in his en¬ 
thusiastic egotism, as if the whole chain of events 
had been arranged purposely for this end: a 
difference had come between two kindred peo¬ 
ples ; a war had broken out; a young officer, 
with the traditions of an old family represented 
in his line, had marched, and had met with a 
peaceful student, who had been incited from high 
and noble motives to take his life; then came a 
strange, brief intimacy, in which his victim made 
the slayer his heir. All these chances, as they 
seemed, all these interferences of Providence, 
as they doubtless were, had been necessary in 
order to put this manuscript into the hands of 
Septimius, who now pored over it, and could not 
with certainty read one word! 

But this did not trouble him, except for the 
momentary delay. Because he felt well assured 
that the strong, concentrated study that he would 
bring to it would remove all difficulties, as the 
rays of a lens melt stones ; as the telescope 
pierces through densest light of stars, and re¬ 
solves them into their individual brilliancies. 
He could afford to spend years upon it, if it 

135 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


were necessary; but earnestness and application 
should do quickly the work of years. 

Amid these musings he was interrupted by 
his Aunt Keziah ; though generally observant 
enough of her nephew’s studies, and feeling a 
sanctity in them, both because of his intending 
to be a minister and because she had a great 
reverence for learning, even if heathenish, this 
good old lady summoned Septimius somewhat 
peremptorily to chop wood for her domestic pur¬ 
poses. How strange it is, the way in which we 
are summoned from all high purposes by these 
little homely necessities! — all symbolizing the 
great fact that the earthly part of us, with its 
demands, takes up the greater portion of all our 
available force. So Septimius, grumbling and 
groaning, went to the woodshed and exercised 
himself for an hour as the old lady requested ; 
and it was only by instinct that he worked, hardly 
conscious what he was doing. The whole of 
passing life seemed impertinent; or if, for an 
instant, it seemed otherwise, then his lonely 
speculations and plans seemed to become im¬ 
palpable, and to have only the consistency of 
vapor, which his utmost concentration succeeded 
no further than to make into the likeness of ab¬ 
surd faces, mopping, mowing, and laughing at 
him. 

But that sentence of mystic meaning shone 
out before him like a transparency, illuminated 
136 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


in the darkness of his mind; he determined to 
take it for his motto until he should be victori¬ 
ous in his quest. When he took his candle, to 
retire apparently to bed, he again drew forth the 
manuscript, and, sitting down by the dim light, 
tried vainly to read it; but he could not as yet 
settle himself to concentrated and regular effort; 
he kept turning the leaves oPthe manuscript, in 
the hope that some other illuminated sentence 
might gleam out upon him, as the first had done, 
and shed a light on the context around it; and 
that then another would be discovered, with sim¬ 
ilar effect, until the whole document would thus 
be illuminated with separate stars of light, con¬ 
verging and concentrating in one radiance that 
should make the whole visible. But such was 
his bad fortune, not another word of the manu¬ 
script was he able to read that whole evening; 
and, moreover, while he had still an inch of candle 
left. Aunt Keziah, in her nightcap, — as witch¬ 
like a figure as ever went to a wizard meeting 
in the forest with Septimius’s ancestor, — ap¬ 
peared at the door of the room, aroused from 
her bed, and shaking her finger at him. 

“ Septimius,*' said she, you keep me awake, 
and you will ruin your eyes and turn your head, 
if you study till midnight in this manner. 
You 'll never live to be a minister, if this is the 
way you go on." 

“ Well, well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, 

137 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


covering his manuscript with a book, “ I am 
just going to bed now.” 

“ Good-night, then,” said the old woman ; 
“ and God bless your labors.” 

Strangely enough, a glance at the manuscript, 
as he hid it from the old woman, had seemed 
to Septimius to reveal another sentence, of which 
he had imperfectly caught the purport ; and 
when she had gone, he in vain sought the place, 
and vainly, too, endeavored to recall the mean¬ 
ing of what he had read. Doubtless his fancy 
exaggerated the importance of the sentence, and 
he felt as if it might have vanished from the 
book forever. In fact, the unfortunate young 
man, excited and tossed to and fro by a variety 
of unusual impulses, was got into a bad way, 
and was likely enough to go mad, unless the 
balancing portion of his mind proved to be of 
greater volume and effect than as yet appeared 
to be the case. 

The next morning he was up, bright and early, 
poring over the manuscript with the sharpened 
wits of the new day, peering into its night, into 
its old, blurred, forgotten dream ; and, indeed, 
he had been dreaming about it, and was fully 
possessed with the idea that, in his dream, he 
had taken up the inscrutable document, and read 
it off as glibly as he would the page of a modern 
drama, in a continual rapture with the deep truth 

138 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

that it made clear to his comprehension, and 
the lucid way in which it evolved the mode in 
which man might be restored to his originally 
undying state. So strong was the impression, 
that when he unfolded the manuscript, it was 
with almost the belief that the crabbed old hand¬ 
writing would be plain to him. Such did not 
prove to be the case, however ; so far from it, 
that poor Septimius in vain turned over the yel¬ 
low pages in quest of the one sentence which 
he had been able, or fancied he had been able, 
to read yesterday. The illumination that had 
brought it out was now faded, and all was a blur, 
an inscrutableness, a scrawl of unintelligible char¬ 
acters alike. So much did this affect him, that 
he had almost a mind to tear it into a thousand 
fragments, and scatter it out of the window to 
the west wind, that was then blowing past the 
house; and if, in that summer season, there had 
been a fire on the hearth, it is possible that easy 
realization of a destructive impulse might have 
incited him to fling the accursed scrawl into the 
hottest of the flames, and thus returned it to 
the Devil, who, he suspected, was the original 
author of it. Had he done so, what strange and 
gloomy passages would I have been spared the 
pain of relating! H ow different woul d have been 
the life of Septimius ! — a thoughtful preacher 
of God’s word, taking severe but conscientious 
views of man’s state and relations, a heavy- 
139 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


browed walker and worker on earth, and, finally, 
a slumberer in an honored grave, with an epi¬ 
taph bearing testimony to his great usefulness 
in his generation. 

But, in the meantime, here was the trouble¬ 
some day passing over him, and pestering, be¬ 
wildering, and tripping him up with its mere 
sublunary troubles, as the days will all of us the 
moment we try to do anything that we flatter 
ourselves is of a little more importance than 
others are doing. Aunt Keziah tormented him 
a great while about the rich field, just across the 
road, in front of the house, which Septimius had 
neglected the cultivation of, unwilling to spare 
the time to plough, to plant, to hoe it himself, 
but hired a lazy lout of the village, when he 
might just as well have employed and paid wages 
to the scarecrow which Aunt Keziah dressed out 
in ancient habiliments, and set up in the midst 
of the corn. Then came an old codger from 
the village, talking to Septimius about the war, 
— a theme of which he was weary : telling the 
rumor of skirmishes that the next day would 
prove to be false, of battles that were immedi¬ 
ately to take place, of encounters with the 
enemy in which our side showed the valor of 
twentyfold heroes, but had to retreat; babbling 
about shells and mortars, battalions, manoeuvres, 
angles, fascines, and other items of military art; 
for war had filled the whole brain of the people, 
140 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and enveloped the whole thought of man in a 
mist of gunpowder. 

In this way, sitting on his doorstep, or in the 
very study, haunted by such speculations, this 
wretched old man would waste the better part 
of a summer afternoon, while Septimius listened, 
returning abstracted monosyllables, answering 
amiss, and wishing his persecutor jammed into 
one of the cannons he talked about, and fired 
off, to end his interminable babble in one roar; 
[talking] of great officers coming from France 
and other countries; of overwhelming forces 
from England, to put an end to the war at 
once ; of the unlikelihood that it ever should 
be ended ; of its hopelessness ; of its certainty 
of a good and speedy end. 

Then came limping along the lane a disabled 
soldier, begging his way home from the field, 
which, a little while ago, he had sought in the 
full vigor of rustic health he was never to know 
again ; with whom Septimius had to talk, and 
relieve his wants as far as he could (though not 
from the poor young officer’s deposit of English 
gold), and send him on his way. 

Then came the minister to talk with his 
former pupil, about whom he had latterly had 
much meditation, not understanding what mood 
had taken possession of him; for the minister 
was a man of insight, and from conversations 
with Septimius, as searching as he knew how to 
141 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


make them, he had begun to doubt whether 
he were sufficiently sound in faith to adopt the 
clerical persuasion. Not that he supposed him 
to be anything like a confirmed unbeliever; but 
he thought it probable that these doubts, these 
strange, dark, disheartening suggestions of the 
Devil, that so surely infect certain temperaments 
and measures of intellect, were tormenting poor 
Septimius, and pulling him back from the path 
in which he was capable of doing so much good. 
So he came this afternoon to talk seriously with 
him, and to advise him, if the case were as he 
supposed, to get for a time out of the track of 
the thought in which he had so long been en¬ 
gaged ; to enter into active life ; and by and by, 
when the morbid influences should have been 
overcome by a change of mental and moral re¬ 
ligion, he might return, fresh and healthy, to his 
original design. 

“ What can I do,” asked Septimius gloomily, 
‘‘ what business take up, when the whole land 
lies waste and idle, except for this war ? ” 

“ There is the very business, then,” said the 
minister. Do you think God’s work is not 
to be done in the field as well as in the pulpit ? 
You are strong, Septimius, of a bold character, 
and have a mien and bearing that gives you a 
natural command among men. Go to the wars, 
and do a valiant part for your country, and come 
back to your peaceful mission when the enemy 
142 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


has vanished. Or you might go as chaplain 
to a regiment, and use either hand in battle, — 
pray for success before a battle, help win it with 
sword or gun, and give thanks to God, kneeling 
on the bloody field, at its close. You have 
already stretched one foe on your native soil.*' 

Septimius could not but smile within himself 
at this warlike and bloody counsel; and, joining 
it with some similar exhortations from Aunt 
Keziah, he was inclined to think that women 
and clergymen are, in matters of war, the most 
uncompromising and bloodthirsty of the com¬ 
munity. However, he replied coolly, that his 
moral impulses and his feelings of duty did not 
exactly impel him in this direction, and that he 
was of opinion that war was a business in which 
a man could not engage with safety to his con¬ 
science, unless his conscience actually drove him 
into it; and that this made all the difference be¬ 
tween heroic battle and murderous strife. The 
good minister had nothing very effectual to 
answer to this, and took his leave, with a still 
stronger opinion than before that there was 
something amiss in his pupil's mind. 

By this time, this thwarting day had gone on 
through its course of little and great impedi¬ 
ments to his pursuit, — the discouragements of 
trifling and earthly business, of purely imperti¬ 
nent interruption, of severe and disheartening 
opposition from the powerful counteraction of 

143 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


different kinds of mind, — until the hour had 
come at which he had arranged to meet Rose 
Garfield. I am afraid the poor thwarted youth 
did not go to his love tryst in any very amiable 
mood; but rather, perhaps, reflecting how all 
things earthly and immortal, and love among 
the rest, whichever category, of earth or heaven, 
it may belong to, set themselves against man’s 
progress in any pursuit that he seeks to devote 
himself to. It is one struggle, the moment he 
undertakes such a thing, of everything else in 
the world to impede him. 

However, as it turned out, it was a pleasant 
and happy interview that he had with Rose that 
afternoon. The girl herself was in a happy, 
tuneful mood, and met him with such simpli¬ 
city, threw such a light of sweetness over his 
soul, that Septimius almost forgot all the wild 
cares of the day, and walked by her side with a 
quiet fulness of pleasure that was new to him. 
She reconciled him, in some secret way, to life 
as it was, to imperfection, to decay ; without 
any help from her intellect, but through the 
influence of her character, she seemed, not to 
solve, but to smooth away, problems that trou¬ 
bled him ; merely by being, by womanhood, by 
simplicity, she interpreted God’s ways to him; 
she softened the stoniness that was gathering 
about his heart. And so they had a delightful 
time of talking, and laughing, and smelling to 
144 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


flowers ; and when they were parting, Septimius 
said to her : — 

‘‘ Rose, you have convinced me that this is 
a most happy world, and that Life has its two 
children. Birth and Death, and is bound to 
prize them equally; and that God is very kind 
to his earthly children ; and that all will go 
well/' 

‘‘ And have I convinced you of all this ?" 
replied Rose, with a pretty laughter. “ It is all 
true, no doubt, but I should not have known 
how to argue for it. But you are very sweet, 
and have not frightened me to-day." 

“ Do I ever frighten you, then. Rose? " asked 
Septimius, bending his black brow upon her with 
a look of surprise and displeasure. 

Yes, sometimes," said Rose, facing him with * 
courage, and smiling upon the cloud so as to 
drive it away : when you frown upon me like 
that, I am a little afraid you will beat me, all in 
good time." 

“ Now," said Septimius, laughing again, you 
shall have your choice: to be beaten on the 
spot, or suffer another kind of punishment, — 
which ? " 

So saying, he snatched her to him, and strove 
to kiss her, while Rose, laughing and strug¬ 
gling, cried out, ‘‘ The beating ! the beating ! " 
But Septimius relented not, though it was only 
Rose's cheek that he succeeded in touching. In 

145 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

truth, except for that first one, at the moment 
of their plighted troths, I doubt whether Septi- 
mius ever touched those soft, sweet lips, where 
the smiles dwelt and the little pouts. He now 
returned to his study, and questioned with him¬ 
self whether he should touch that weary, ugly, 
yellow, blurred, unintelligible, bewitched, mys¬ 
terious, bullet-penetrated, blood-stained manu¬ 
script again. There was an undefinable re¬ 
luctance to do so, and at the same time an 
enticement (irresistible, as it proved) drawing 
him towards it. He yielded, and taking it from 
his desk, in which the precious, fatal treasure 
was locked up, he plunged into it again, and 
this time with a certain degree of success. He 
found the line which had before gleamed out, 
and vanished again, and which now started out 
in strong relief; even as when sometimes we see 
a certain arrangement of stars in the heavens, 
and again lose it, by not seeing its individual 
stars in the same relation as before; even so, 
looking at the manuscript in a different way, 
Septimius saw this fragment of a sentence, and 
saw, moreover, what was necessary to give it a 
certain meaning. ‘‘ Set the root in a grave, and 
wait for what shall blossom. It will be very 
rich, and full of juice.” This was the purport, 
he now felt sure, of the sentence he had lighted 
upon ; and he took it to refer to the mode of 
producing something that was essential to the 
146 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


thing to be concocted. It might have only a 
moral being; or, as is generally the case, the 
moral and physical truth went hand in hand. 

While Septimius was busying himself in this 
way, the summer advanced, and with it there ap¬ 
peared a new character, making her way into our 
pages. This was a slender and pale girl, whom 
Septimius was once startled to find, when he 
ascended his hilltop, to take his walk to and 
fro upon the accustomed path, which he had 
now worn deep. 

What was stranger, she sat down close beside 
the grave, which none but he and the minister 
knew to be a grave; that little hillock, which he 
had levelled a little, and had planted with various 
flowers and shrubs ; which the summer had fos¬ 
tered into richness, the poor young man below 
having contributed what he could, and tried to 
render them as beautiful as he might, in remem¬ 
brance of his own beauty. Septimius wished to 
conceal the fact of its being a grave : not that he 
was tormented with any sense that he had done 
wrong in shooting the young man, which had 
been done in fair battle; but still it was not the 
pleasantest of thoughts, that he had laid a beau¬ 
tiful human creature, so fit for the enjoyment of 
life, there, when his own dark brow, his own 
troubled breast, might better, he could not but 
acknowledge, have been covered up there. 
\_Perhaps there might sometimes be something fan- 

147 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

tastically gay in the language and behavior of the 
girl.'] 

Well; but then, on this flower and shrub dis¬ 
guised grave sat this unknown form of a girl, 
with a slender, pallid, melancholy grace about 
her, simply dressed in a dark attire, which she 
drew loosely about her. At first glimpse, Sep- 
timius fancied that it might be Rose; but it 
needed only a glance to undeceive him ; her 
figure was of another character from the vigor¬ 
ous though slight and elastic beauty of Rose ; 
this was a drooping grace, and when he came 
near enough to see her face, he saw that those 
large, dark, melancholy eyes, with which she had 
looked at him, had never met his gaze before. 

‘‘ Good-morrow, fair maiden,** said Septi- 
mius, with such courtesy as he knew how to use 
(which, to say truth, was of a rustic order, his 
way of life having brought him little into female 
society). “ There is a nice air here on the hill¬ 
top, this sultry morning below the hill! ** 

As he spoke, he continued to look wonder- 
ingly at the strange maiden, half fancying that 
she might be something that had grown up out 
of the grave ; so unexpected she was, so simply 
unlike anything that had before come there. 

The girl did not speak to him, but as she sat 
by the grave she kept weeding out the little white 
blades of faded autumn grass and yellow pine 
spikes, peering into the soil as if to see what it 
148 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


was all made of, and everything that was grow¬ 
ing there; and in truth, whether by Septimius’s 
care or no, there seemed to be several kinds of 
flowers, — those little asters that abound every¬ 
where, and g(^lden flowers, such as autumn sup¬ 
plies with abundance. She seemed to be in quest 
of something, and several times plucked a leaf 
and examined it carefully; then threw it down 
again, and shook her head. At last she lifted 
up her pale face, and, fixing her eyes quietly on 
Septimius, spoke : It is not here !'' 

A very sweet voice it was, — plaintive, low, 
— and she spoke to Septimius as if she were fa¬ 
miliar with him, and had something to do with 
him. He was greatly interested, not being able 
to imagine who the strange girl was, or whence 
she came, or what, of all things, could be her 
reason for coming and sitting down by this grave, 
and apparently botanizing upon it, in quest of 
some particular plant. 

Are you in search of flowers ? ” asked Sep¬ 
timius. This is but a barren spot for them, 
and this is not a good season. In the meadows, 
and along the margin of the water courses, you 
might find the fringed gentian at this time. In 
the woods there are several pretty flowers,— 
the side-saddle flower, the anemone; violets are 
plentiful in spring, and make the whole hillside 
blue. But this hilltop, with its soil strewn over 
a heap of pebblestones, is no place for flowers.'* 
149 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


The soil is fit/’ said the maiden, but the 
flower has not sprung up.” 

‘‘ What flower do you speak of? ” asked Sep- 
timius. 

One that is not here,” said the pale girl. 

No matter. I will look for it again next spring.” 

‘‘ Do you, then, dwell hereabout ? ” inquired 
Septimius. 

‘‘ Surely,” said the maiden, with a look of sur¬ 
prise ; ‘‘ where else should I dwell ? My home 
is on this hilltop.” 

It not a little startled Septimius, as may be 
supposed, to find his paternal inheritance, of 
which he and his forefathers had been the only 
owners since the world began (for they held it 
by an Indian deed), claimed as a home and 
abiding place by this fair, pale, strange-acting 
maiden, who spoke as if she had as much right 
there as if she had grown up out of the soil like 
one of the wild, indigenous flowers which she 
had been gazing at and handling. However 
that might be, the maiden seemed now about to 
depart, rising, giving a farewell touch or two to 
the little verdant hillock, which looked much 
the neater for her ministrations. 

“Are you going?” said Septimius, looking 
at her in wonder. 

“ For a time,” said she. 

“ And shall I see you again ? ” asked he. 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Surely/’ said the maiden, this is my walk, 
along the brow of the hill.” 

It again smote Septimius with a strange thrill 
of surprise to find the walk which he himself 
had made, treading it, and smoothing it, and 
beating it down with the pressure of his contin¬ 
ual feet, from the time when the tufted grass 
made the sides all uneven, until now, when it 
was such a pathway as you may see through a 
wood or over a field, where many feet pass every 
day, — to find this track and exemplification of 
his own secret thoughts and plans and embtions, 
this writing of his body, impelled by the strug¬ 
gle and movement of his soul, claimed as her 
own by a strange girl with melancholy eyes and 
voice, who seemed to have such a sad familiar¬ 
ity with him. 

You are welcome to come here,” said he, 
endeavoring at least to keep such hold on his 
own property as was implied in making a hos¬ 
pitable surrender of it to another. 

“ Yes,” said the girl, “ a person should always 
be welcome to his own.” 

A faint smile seemed to pass over her face as 
she said this, vanishing, however, immediately 
into the melancholy of her usual expression. 
She went along Septimius’s path, while he stood 
gazing at her till she reached the brow where it 
sloped towards Robert Hagburn’s house; then 

151 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


she turned, and seemed to wave a slight farewell 
towards the young man, and began to descend. 
When her figure had entirely sunk behind the 
brow of the hill, Septimius slowly followed along 
the ridge, meaning to watch from that elevated 
station the course she would take ; although, in¬ 
deed, he would not have been surprised if he 
had seen nothing, no trace of her in the whole 
nearness or distance; in short, if she had been 
a freak, an illusion, of a hard-working mind that 
had put itself ajar by deeply brooding on abstruse 
matters, an illusion of eyes that he had tried too 
much by poring over the inscrutable manuscript, 
and of intellect that was mystified and bewildered 
by trying to grasp things that could not be 
grasped. A thing of witchcraft, a sort of fun¬ 
gus growth out of the grave, an unsubstantiality 
altogether; although, certainly, she had weeded 
the grave with bodily fingers, at all events. Still 
he had so much of the hereditary mysticism of 
his race in him, that he might have held her 
supernatural, only that on reaching the brow of 
the hill he saw her feet approach the dwelling 
of Robert Hagburn's mother, who, moreover, 
appeared at the threshold beckoning her to come, 
with a motherly, hospitable air, that denoted she 
knew the strange girl, and recognized her as 
human. 

It did not lessen Septimius's surprise, how¬ 
ever, to think that such a singular being was es- 
152 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


tablished in the neighborhood without his know¬ 
ledge ; considered as a real occurrence of this 
world, it seemed even more unaccountable than 
if it had been a thing of ghostology and witch¬ 
craft. Continually through the day the incident 
kept introducing its recollection among his 
thoughts and studies; continually, as he paced 
along his path, this form seemed to hurry along 
by his side on the track that she had claimed for 
her own, and he thought of her singular threat 
or promise, whichever it were to be held, that 
he should have a companion there in future. In 
the decline of the day, when he met the school¬ 
mistress coming home from her little seminary, 
he snatched the first opportunity to mention the 
apparition of the morning, and ask Rose if she 
knew anything of her. 

“Very little,” said Rose; “but she is flesh and 
blood, — of that you may be quite sure. She 
is a girl who has been shut up in Boston by the 
siege ; perhaps a daughter of one of the British 
officers, and her health being frail, she requires 
better air than they have there, and so permis¬ 
sion was got for her, from General Washington, 
to come and live in the country ; as any one 
may see, our liberties have nothing to fear from 
this poor brain-stricken girl. And Robert Hag- 
burn, having to bring a message from camp to 
the selectmen here, had it in charge to bring the 
girl, whom his mother has taken to board.” 

153 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Then the poor thing is crazy ? asked Sep- 
timius. 

“ A little brain-touched, that is all/' replied 
Rose, owing to some grief that she has had; 
but she is quite harmless, Robert was told to 
say, and needs little or no watching, and will get 
a kind of fantastic happiness for herself, if only 
she is allowed to ramble about at her pleasure. 
If thwarted, she might be very wild and miser¬ 
able." 

‘‘ Have you spoken with her ? " asked Septi- 
mius. 

A word or two this morning, as I was go¬ 
ing to my school," said Rose. She took me 
by the hand, and smiled, and said we would be 
friends, and that I should show her where the 
flowers grew ; for that she had a little spot of 
her own that she wanted to plant with them. 
And she asked me if the Sanguinea sanguinissima 
grew hereabout. I should not have taken her 
to be ailing in her wits, only for a kind of free¬ 
spokenness and familiarity, as if we had been 
acquainted a long while; or as if she had lived 
in some country where there are no forms and 
impediments in people's getting acquainted." 

“ Did you like her ? " inquired Septimius. 

‘‘Yes; almost loved her at first sight," an¬ 
swered Rose, “ and I hope may do her some 
little good, poor thing, being of her own age, 
and the only companion, hereabouts, whom she 

154 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


is likely to find. But she has been well edu¬ 
cated, and is a lady, that is easy to see.” 

‘‘ It is very strange,” said Septimius, ‘‘ but I 
fear I shall be a good deal interrupted in my 
thoughts and studies, if she insists on haunting 
my hilltop as much as she tells me. My med¬ 
itations are perhaps of a little too much impor¬ 
tance to be shoved aside for the sake of gratify¬ 
ing a crazy girPs fantasies.” 

Ah, that is a hard thing to say ! ” exclaimed 
Rose, shocked at her lover’s cold egotism, though 
not giving it that title. Let the poor thing 
glide quietly along in the path, though it be 
yours. Perhaps, after a while, she will help your 
thoughts.” 

My thoughts,” said Septimius, ‘‘ are of a 
kind that can have no help from any one; if 
from any, it would only be from some wise, long- 
studied, and experienced scientific man, who 
could enlighten me as to the bases and founda¬ 
tion of things, as to mystic writings, as to chem¬ 
ical elements, as to the mysteries of language, as 
to the principles and system on which we were 
created. Methinks these are not to be taught 
me by a girl touched in the wits.” 

“ I fear,” replied Rose Garfield with gravity, 
and drawing imperceptibly apart from him, “ that 
no woman can help you much. You despise 
woman’s thought, and have no need of her af¬ 
fection.” 


155 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

Septimius said something soft and sweet, and 
in a measure true, in regard to the necessity he 
felt for the affection and sympathy of one wo¬ 
man at least — the one now by his side — to 
keep his life warm and to make the empty cham¬ 
bers of his heart comfortable. But even while 
he spoke, there was something that dragged upon 
his tongue; for he felt that the solitary pursuit 
in which he was engaged carried him apart from 
the sympathy of which he spoke, and that he 
was concentrating his efforts and interest entirely 
upon himself, and that the more he succeeded 
the more remotely he should be carried away, 
and that his final triumph would be the com¬ 
plete seclusion of himself from all that breathed, 
— the converting him, from an interested actor 
into a cold and disconnected spectator of all man¬ 
kind’s warm and sympathetic life. So, as it 
turned out, this interview with Rose was one 
of those in which, coming no one knows from 
whence, a nameless cloud springs up between two 
lovers, and keeps them apart from one another 
by a cold, sullen spell. Usually, however, it 
requires only one word, spoken out of the heart, 
to break that spell, and compel the invisible, 
unsympathetic medium which the enemy of love 
has stretched cunningly between them to van¬ 
ish, and let them come closer together than ever; 
but, in this case, it might be that the love was 
the illusive state, and the estrangement the real 
156 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


truth, the disenchanted verity. At all events, 
when the feeling passed away, in Rosens heart 
there was no reaction, no warmer love, as is gen¬ 
erally the case. As for Septimius, he had other 
things to think about, and when he next met 
Rose Garfield had forgotten that he had been 
sensible of a little wounded feeling, on her part, 
at parting. 

By dint of continued poring over the manu¬ 
script, Septimius now began to comprehend that 
it was written in a singular mixture of Latin and 
ancient English, with constantly recurring .para¬ 
graphs of what he was convinced was a mystic 
writing; and these recurring passages of com¬ 
plete unintelligibility seemed to be necessary 
to the proper understanding of any part of the 
document. What was discoverable was quaint, 
curious, but thwarting and perplexing, because 
it seemed to imply some very great purpose, 
only to be brought out by what was hidden. 

Septimius had read, in the old college library, 
during his pupilage, a work on ciphers and cryp¬ 
tic writing, but being drawn to it only by his 
curiosity respecting whatever was hidden, and 
not expecting ever to use his knowledge, he 
had obtained only the barest idea of what was 
necessary to the deciphering a secret passage. 
Judging by what he could pick out, he would 
have thought the whole essay was upon the 
moral conduct; all parts of that he could make 

157 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

out seeming to refer to a certain ascetic rule of 
life, to denial of pleasures ; these topics being 
repeated and insisted on everywhere, although 
without any discoverable reference to religious 
or moral motives ; and always when the author 
seemed verging towards a definite purpose, he 
took refuge in his cipher. Yet withal, imper¬ 
fectly (or not at all, rather) as Septimius could 
comprehend its purport, this strange writing had 
a mystic influence, that wrought upon his ima¬ 
gination, and with the late singular incidents of 
his life, his continual thought on this one sub¬ 
ject, his walk on the hilltop, lonely, or only in¬ 
terrupted by the pale shadow of a girl, combined 
to set him outside of the living world. Rose 
Garfield perceived it, knew and felt that he was 
gliding away from her, and met him with a re¬ 
serve which she could not overcome. 

It was a pity that his early friend, Robert 
Hagburn, could not at present have any influ¬ 
ence over him, having now regularly joined the 
Continental Army, and being engaged in the 
expedition of Arnold against Quebec. Indeed, 
this war, in which the country was so earnestly 
and enthusiastically engaged, had perhaps an in¬ 
fluence on Septimius's state of mind, for it put 
everybody into an exaggerated and unnatural 
state, united enthusiasms of all sorts, heightened 
everybody either into its own heroism or into 
the peculiar madness to which each person was 
158 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


inclined ; and Septimius walked so much the 
more wildly on his lonely course, because the 
people were going enthusiastically on another. 
In times of revolution and public disturbance 
all absurdities are more unrestrained; the mea- 
sure of calm sense, the habits, the orderly de¬ 
cency, are partially lost. More people become 
insane, I should suppose; offences against pub¬ 
lic morality, female license, are more numerous; 
suicides, murders, all ungovernable outbreaks 
of men’s thoughts, embodying themselves in 
wild acts, take place more frequently, and with 
less horror to the lookers-on. So [with] Sep¬ 
timius ; there was not, as there would have been 
at an ordinary time, the same calmness and 
truth in the public observation, scrutinizing 
everything with its keen criticism, in that time 
of seething opinions and overturned principles ; 
a new time was coming, and Septimius’s phase 
of novelty attracted less attention so far as it 
was known. 

So he continued to brood over the manuscript 
in his study, and to hide it under lock and key 
in a recess of the wall, as if it were a secret of 
murder ; to walk, too, on his hilltop, where at 
sunset always came the pale, crazy maiden, who 
still seemed to watch the little hillock with a 
pertinacious care that was strange to Septimius. 
By and by came the winter and the deep snows ; 
and even then, unwilling to give up his habitual 

159 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


place of exercise, the monotonousness of which 
promoted his wish to keep before his mind 
one subject of thought, Septimius wore a path 
through the snow, and still walked there. Here, 
however, he lost for a time the companionship 
of the girl; for when the first snow came, she 
shivered, and looked at its white heap over the 
hillock, and said to Septimius, ‘‘ I will look for 
it again in the spring.*’ 

\_Septimius is at the point of despair for want 
of a guide in his studies, 

The winter swept over, and spring was just 
beginning to spread its green flush over the 
more favored exposures of the landscape, al¬ 
though on the north side of stone walls, and 
the northern nooks of hills, there were still the 
remnants of snowdrifts. Septimius’s hilltop, 
which was of a soil which quickly rid itself of 
moisture, now began to be a genial place of 
resort to him, and he was one morning taking 
his walk there, meditating upon the still insur¬ 
mountable difficulties which interposed them¬ 
selves against the interpretation of the manu¬ 
script, yet feeling the new gush of spring bring 
hope to him, and the energy and elasticity for 
new effort. Thus pacing to and fro, he was sur¬ 
prised, as he turned at the extremity of his walk, 
to see a figure advancing towards him ; not that 
of the pale maiden whom he was accustomed to 
see there, but a figure as widely different as pos- 
i6o 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


sible. \He sees a spider dangling from his wehy 
and examines him minutely It was that of a 
short, broad, somewhat elderly man, dressed in 
a surtout that had a half-military air; the cocked 
hat of the period, well worn, and having a fresher 
spot in it, whence, perhaps, a cockade had been 
recently taken off; and this personage carried 
a well-blackened German pipe in his hand, 
which, as he walked, he applied to his lips, and 
puffed out volumes of smoke, filling the plea¬ 
sant western breeze with the fragrance of some 
excellent Virginia. He came slowly along, and 
Septimius, slackening his pace a little, came as 
slowly to meet him, feeling somewhat indignant, 
to be sure, that anybody should intrude on his 
sacred hill; until at last they met, as it hap¬ 
pened, close by the memorable little hillock, 
on which the grass and flower leaves also had 
begun to sprout. The stranger looked keenly 
at Septimius, made a careless salute by put¬ 
ting his hand up, and took the pipe from his 
mouth. 

“ Mr. Septimius Felton, I suppose ? ” said he. 

“ That is my name,*^ replied Septimius. 

I am Doctor Jabez Portsoaken,’’ said the 
stranger, “late surgeon of his Majesty’s six¬ 
teenth regiment, which I quitted when his Ma¬ 
jesty’s army quitted Boston, being desirous of 
trying my fortunes in your country, and giving 
the people the benefit of my scientific know- 
161 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ledge ; also to practise some new modes of med¬ 
ical science, which I could not so well do in the 
army.” 

“ I think you are quite right, Doctor Jabez 
Portsoaken,” said Septimius, a little confused 
and bewildered, so unused had he become to the 
society of strangers. 

‘‘ And as to you, sir,” said the doctor, who 
had a very rough, abrupt way of speaking, “ I 
have to thank you for a favor done me.” 

Have you, sir ? ” said Septimius, who was 
quite sure that he had never seen the doctor's 
uncouth figure before. 

O, ay, me,” said the doctor, puffing coolly, 
— ‘‘me, in the person of my niece, a sickly, 
poor, nervous little thing, who is very fond of 
walking on your hilltop, and whom you do not 
send away.” 

“ You are the uncle of Sibyl Dacy ? ” said 
Septimius. 

“ Even so, her mother's brother,” said the 
doctor, with a grotesque bow. “ So, being on 
a visit, the first that the siege allowed me to pay, 
to see how the girl was getting on, I take the 
opportunity to pay my respects to you; the 
more that I understand you to be a young man 
of some learning, and it is not often that one 
meets with such in this country.” 

“ No,” said Septimius abruptly, for indeed 
he had half a suspicion that this queer Doctor 
162 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Portsoaken was not altogether sincere, — that, 
in short, he was making game of him. ‘‘You 
have been misinformed. I know nothing what¬ 
ever that is worth knowing.’' 

“ Oho ! ” said the doctor, with a long puff of 
smoke out of his pipe. “If you are convinced 
of that, you are one of the wisest men I have 
met with, young as you are. I must have been 
twice your age before I got so far; and even 
now, I am sometimes fool enough to doubt the 
only thing I was ever sure of knowing. But 
come, you make me only the more earnest to 
collogue with you. If we put both our short¬ 
comings together, they may make up an item of 
positive knowledge.” 

“ What use can one make of abortive 
thoughts ? ” said Septimius. 

“Do your speculations take a scientific turn ? ” 
said Doctor Portsoaken. “ There I can meet 
you with as much false knowledge and empiri¬ 
cism as you can bring for the life of you. Have 
you ever tried to study spiders ? — there is my 
strong point now! I have hung my whole in¬ 
terest in life on a spider’s web.” 

“ I know nothing of them, sir,” said Septi¬ 
mius, “ except to crush them when I see them 
running across the floor, or to brush away the 
festoons of their webs when they have chanced 
to escape my Aunt Keziah’s broom.” 

“ Crush them ! Brush away their webs ! ” 
163 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


cried the doctor, apparently in a rage, and shak¬ 
ing his pipe at Septimius. Sir, it is sacrilege 1 
Yes, it is worse than murder. Every thread of 
a spider's web is worth more than a thread of 
gold ; and before twenty years are passed, a 
housemaid will be beaten to death with her own 
broomstick if she disturbs one of these sacred 
animals. But, come again. Shall we talk of 
botany, the virtues of herbs ? " 

“ My Aunt Keziah should meet you there, 
doctor,” said Septimius. She has a native and 
original acquaintance with their virtues, and can 
save and kill with any of the faculty. As for 
myself, my studies have not turned that way.” 

They ought! they ought! ” said the doctor, 
looking meaningly at him. “ The whole thing 
lies in the blossom of an herb. Now, you ought 
to begin with what lies about you ; on this little 
hillock, for instance ; ” and looking at the grave 
beside which they were standing, he gave it a 
kick which went to Septimius's heart, there 
seemed to be such a spite and scorn in it. On 
this hillock I see some specimens of plants which 
would be worth your looking at.” 

Bending down towards the grave as he spoke, 
he seemed to give closer attention to what he 
saw there ; keeping in his stooping position till 
his face began to get a purple aspect, for the 
erudite doctor was of that make of man who has 
to be kept right side uppermost with care. At 
164 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


length he raised himself, muttering, Very cu¬ 
rious ! very curious ! ” 

‘‘ Do you see anything remarkable there ? ” 
asked Septimius, with some interest. 

“Yes,” said the doctor bluntly. “ No mat¬ 
ter what! The time will come when you may 
like to know it.” 

“ Will you come with me to my residence at 
the foot of the hill. Doctor Portsoaken ? ” asked 
Septimius. “ I am not a learned man, and have 
little or no title to converse with one, except a 
sincere desire to be wiser than I am. If you can 
be moved on such terms to give me your com¬ 
panionship, I shall be thankful.” 

“ Sir, I am with you,” said Doctor Port¬ 
soaken. “ I will tell you what I know, in the 
sure belief (for I will be frank with you) that it 
will add to the amount of dangerous folly now 
in your mind, and help you on the way to ruin. 
Take your choice, therefore, whether to know 
me further or not.” 

“ I neither shrink nor fear, — neither hope 
much,” said Septimius quietly. “ Anything 
that you can communicate — if anything you can 
— I shall fearlessly receive, and return you such 
thanks as it may be found to deserve.” 

So saying, he led the way down the hill, by the 
steep path that descended abruptly upon the rear 
of his bare and unadorned little dwelling; the 
doctor following with much foul language (for 
165 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


he had a terrible habit of swearing) at the diffi¬ 
culties of the way, to which his short legs were 
ill adapted. Aunt Keziah met them at the door, 
and looked sharply at the doctor, who returned 
the gaze with at least as much keenness, mutter¬ 
ing between his teeth as he did so; and to say 
the truth. Aunt Keziah was as worthy of being 
sworn at as any woman could well be, for what¬ 
ever she might have been in her younger days, 
she was at this time as strange a mixture of an 
Indian squaw and herb doctress, with the crabbed 
old maid, and a mingling of the witch aspect 
running through all, as could well be imagined; 
and she had a handkerchief over her head, and 
she was of hue a dusky yellow, and she looked 
very cross. As Septimius ushered the doctor 
into his study, and was about to follow him. 
Aunt Keziah drew him back. 

Septimius, who is this you have brought 
here ?asked she. 

A man I have met on the hill,” answered 
her nephew; ‘^a Doctor Portsoaken he calls 
himself, from the old country. He says he has 
knowledge of herbs and other mysteries; in 
your own line, it may be. If you want to talk 
with him, give the man his dinner, and find 
out what there is in him.” 

“And what do you want of him yourself, 
Septimius ? ” asked she. 

“I? Nothing! — that is to say, I expect 

i66 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


nothing/* said Septimius. “ But I am astray, 
seeking everywhere, and so I reject no hint, no 
promise, no faintest possibility of aid that I 
may find anywhere. I judge this man to be a 
quack, but I judge the same of the most learned 
man of his profession, or any other; and there 
is a roughness about this man that may indicate 
a little more knowledge than if he were smoother. 
So, as he threw himself in my way, I take him 
in.*’ 

“ A grim, ugly-looking old wretch as ever I 
saw,** muttered Aunt Keziah. ‘‘Well, he shall 
have his dinner; and if he likes to talk about 
yarb-dishes, I *m with him.** 

So Septimius followed the doctor into his 
study, where he found him with the sword in 
his hand, which he had taken from over the 
mantelpiece, and was holding it drawn, exam¬ 
ining the hilt and blade with great minuteness; 
the hilt being wrought in openwork, with cer¬ 
tain heraldic devices, doubtless belonging to the 
family of its former wearer. 

“ I have seen this weapon before,** said the 
doctor. 

“It may well be,** said Septimius. “It was 
once worn by a person who served in the army 
of your king.** 

“ And you took it from him ? ** said the 
doctor. 

“ If I did, it was in no way that I need be 
167 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ashamed of, or afraid to tell,,though I choose 
rather not to speak of it,” answered Septimius. 

“ Have you, then, no desire nor interest to 
know the family, the personal history, the pro¬ 
spects, of him who once wore this sword, and 
who will never draw sword again ? ” inquired 
Doctor Portsoaken. ‘‘Poor Cyril Norton! 
There was a singular story attached to that 
young man, sir, and a singular mystery he car¬ 
ried about with him, the end of which, perhaps, 
is not yet.” 

Septimius would have been, indeed, well 
enough pleased to learn the mystery which he 
himself had seen that there was about the man 
whom he slew; but he was afraid that some ques¬ 
tion might be thereby started about the secret 
document that he had kept possession of; and 
he therefore would have wished to avoid the 
whole subject. 

“ I cannot be supposed to take much inter¬ 
est in English family history. It is a hundred 
and fifty years, at least, since my own family 
ceased to be English,” he answered. “ I care 
more for the present and future than for the 
past.” 

“It is all one,” said the doctor, sitting down, 
taking out a pinch of tobacco and refilling his 
pipe.^ 

It is unnecessary to followup the description 
of the visit of the eccentric doctor through the 

i68 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


day. Suffice it to say that there was a sort of 
charm, or rather fascination, about the uncouth 
old fellow, in spite of his strange ways; in spite 
of his constant puffing of tobacco ; and in spite, 
too, of a constant imbibing of strong liquor, 
which he made inquiries for, and of which the 
best that could be produced was a certain de¬ 
coction, infusion, or distillation, pertaining to 
Aunt Keziah, and of which the basis was rum, 
be it said, done up with certain bitter herbs of 
the old lady’s own gathering, at proper times 
of the moon, and which was a well-known^ drink 
to all who were favored with Aunt Keziah’s 
friendship ; though there was a story that it was 
the very drink which used to be passed round 
at witch meetings, being brewed from the Dev¬ 
il’s own recipe. And, in truth, judging from 
the taste (for I once took a sip of a draught 
prepared from the same ingredients and in the 
same way), I should think this hellish origin 
might be the veritable one. 

[“/ thought^" quoth the doctor^ could drink 

anything^ hut ” —'] 

But the valiant doctor sipped, and sipped 
again, and said with great blasphemy that it 
was the real stuff, and only needed henbane to 
make it perfect. Then, taking from his pocket 
a good-sized leathern-covered flask, with a sil¬ 
ver lip fastened on the muzzle, he offered it to 
Septimius, who declined, and to Aunt Keziah, 
169 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


who preferred her own decoction, and then 
drank it off himself, with a loud smack of sat¬ 
isfaction, declaring it to be infernally good 
brandy. 

Well, after this Septimius and he talked; 
and I know not how it was, but there was a 
great deal of imagination in this queer man, 
whether a bodily or spiritual influence it might 
be hard to say. On the other hand, Septimius 
had for a long while held little intercourse with 
men, none whatever with men who could com¬ 
prehend him; the doctor, too, seemed to bring 
the discourse singularly in apposition with what 
his host was continually thinking about, for he 
conversed on occult matters, on people who 
had had the art of living long, and had only 
died at last by accident, on the powers and 
qualities of common herbs, which he believed 
to be so great, that all around our feet — grow¬ 
ing in the wild forest, afar from man, or follow¬ 
ing the footsteps of man wherever he fixes his 
residence, across seas, from the old homesteads 
whence he migrated, following him everywhere, 
and offering themselves sedulously and contin¬ 
ually to his notice, while he only plucks them 
away from the comparatively worthless things 
which he cultivates, and flings them aside, blas¬ 
pheming at them because Providence has sown 
them so thickly — grow what we call weeds, 
only because all the generations, from the be- 
170 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

ginning of* time till now, have failed to discover 
their wondrous virtues, potent for the curing 
of all diseases, potent for procuring length of 
days. 

‘‘ Everything good,” said the doctor, drink¬ 
ing another dram of brandy, “ lies right at our 
feet, and all we need is to gather it up.” 

That's true,” quoth Keziah, taking just a 
little sup of her hellish preparation; “ these 
herbs were all gathered within a hundred yards 
of this very spot, though it took a wise woman 
to find out their virtues.” 

The old woman went off about her house¬ 
hold duties, and then it was that Septimius 
submitted to the doctor the list of herbs which 
he had picked out of the old document, asking 
him, as something apposite to the subject of 
their discourse, whether he was acquainted with 
them, for most of them had very queer names, 
some in Latin, some in English. 

The bluff doctor put on his spectacles, and 
looked over the slip of yellow and worn paper 
scrutinizingly, puffing tobacco smoke upon it in 
great volumes, as if thereby to make its hidden 
purport come out; he mumbled to himself, he 
took another sip from his flask ; and then, put¬ 
ting it down on the table, appeared to meditate. 

^‘This infernal old document,” said he, at 
length, ‘Ms one that I have never seen before, 
yet heard of, nevertheless ; for it was my folly 
171 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


in youth (and whether I am any wiser now is 
more than I take upon me to say, but it was my 
folly then) to be in quest of certain kinds of 
secret knowledge, which the fathers of science 
thought attainable. Now, in several quarters, 
amongst people with whom my pursuits brought 
j me in contact, I heard of a certain recipe which 
had been lost for a generation or two, but which, 
if it could be recovered,would prove to have the 
true life-giving potency in it. It is said that the 
ancestor of a great old family in England was in 
possession of this secret, being a man of science, 
and the friend of Friar Bacon, who was said to 
have concocted it himself, partly from the pre¬ 
cepts of his master, partly from his own exper¬ 
iments, and it is thought he might have been 
living to this day, if he had not unluckily been 
killed in the Wars of the Roses ; for you know 
no recipe for long life would be proof against an 
old English arrow, or a leaden bullet from one 
of our own firelocks.’* 

And what has been the history of the thing 
after his death P ” asked Septimius. 

“It was supposed to be preserved in the fam¬ 
ily,” said the doctor, “ and it has always been 
said, that the head and eldest son of that family 
had it at his option to live forever, if he could 
only make up his mind to it. But seemingly 
there were difficulties in the way. There was 
probably a certain diet and regimen to be ob- 
172 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


served, certain strict rules of life to be kept, a 
certain asceticism to be imposed on the person, 
which was not quite agreeable to young men ; 
and after the period of youth was passed, the 
human frame became incapable of being regen¬ 
erated from the seeds of decay and death, which, 
by that time, had become strongly developed 
in it. In short, while young, the possessor of 
the secret found the terms of immortal life too 
hard to be accepted, since it implied the giving 
up of most of the things that made life desir¬ 
able in his view; and when he came to a. more 
reasonable mind, it was too late. And so, in 
all the generations since Friar Bacon’s time, the 
Nortons have been born, and enjoyed their 
young days, and worried through their man¬ 
hood, and tottered through their old age (unless 
taken off sooner by sword, arrow, ball, fever, or 
what not), and died in their beds, like men that 
had no such option ; and so this old yellow 
paper has done not the least good to any mor¬ 
tal. Neither do I see how it can do any good 
to you, since you know not the rules, moral or 
dietetic, that are essential to its effect. But how 
did you come by it ? ” 

“It matters not how,” said Septimius gloom¬ 
ily. “ Enough that I am its rightful possessor 
and inheritor. Can you read these old charac¬ 
ters ? ” 

“ Most of them,” said the doctor ; “ but let 

173 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


me tell you, my young friend, I have no faith 
whatever in this secret ; and, having meddled 
with such things myself, I ought to know. The 
old physicians and chemists had strange ideas of 
the virtues of plants, drugs, and minerals, and 
equally strange fancies as to the way of getting 
those virtues into action. They would throw 
a hundred different potencies into a caldron 
together, and put them on the fire, and expect 
to brew a potency containing all their poten¬ 
cies, and having a different virtue of its own. 
Whereas, the most likely result would be that 
they would counteract one another, and the con¬ 
coction be of no virtue at all; or else some 
more powerful ingredient would tincture the 
whole.” 

He read the paper again, and continued : — 
I see nothing else so remarkable in this re¬ 
cipe, as that it is chiefly made up of some of the 
commonest things that grow; plants that you 
set your foot upon at your very threshold, in 
your garden, in your wood walks, wherever you 
go. I doubt not old Aunt Keziah knows them, 
and very likely she has brewed them up in that 
hell drink, the remembrance of which is still 
rankling in my stomach. I thought I had swal¬ 
lowed the Devil himself, whom the old woman 
had been boiling down. It would be curious 
enough if the hideous decoction was the same 
as old Friar Bacon and his acolyte discovered 

174 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


by their science ! One ingredient, however, one 
of those plants, I scarcely think the old lady can 
have put into her pot of DeviPs elixir; for it is 
a rare plant, that does not grow in these parts.’' 

And what is that ? ” asked Septimius. 

“ Sanguine a sanguinis sima^' said the doctor ; 

it has no vulgar name; but it produces a very 
beautiful flower, which I have never seen, though 
some seeds of it were sent me by a learned friend 
in Siberia. The others, divested of their Latin 
names, are as common as plantain, pigweed, and 
burdock ; and it stands to reason that, if vege¬ 
table Nature has any such wonderfully effica¬ 
cious medicine in store for men, and means them 
to use it, she would have strewn it everywhere 
plentifully within their reach.” 

“ But, after all, it would be a mockery on the 
old dame’s part,” said the young man, somewhat 
bitterly, since she would thus hold the desired 
thing seemingly within our reach ; but because 
she never tells us how to prepare and obtain its 
efficacy, we miss it just as much as if all the in¬ 
gredients were hidden from sight and knowledge 
in the centre of the earth. We are the play¬ 
things and fools of Nature, which she amuses 
herself with during our little lifetime, and then 
breaks for mere sport, and laughs in our faces 
as she does so.” 

‘^Take care, my good fellow,” said the doc¬ 
tor, with his great coarse laugh. “ I rather sus- 

175 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


pect that you have already got beyond the age 
when the great medicine could do you good ; 
that speech indicates a great toughness and hard¬ 
ness and bitterness about the heart that does not 
accumulate in our tender years/’ 

Septimius took little or no notice of the raillery 
of the grim old doctor, but employed the rest 
of the time in getting as much information as 
he could out of his guest; and though he could 
not bring himself to show him the precious and 
sacred manuscript, yet he questioned him as 
closely as possible without betraying his secret, 
as to the modes of finding out cryptic writings. 
The doctor was not without the perception that 
his dark-browed, keen-eyed acquaintance had 
some purpose not openly avowed in all these 
pertinacious, distinct questions; he discovered 
a central reference in them all, and perhaps knew 
that Septimius must have in his possession some 
writing in hieroglyphics, cipher, or other secret 
mode, that conveyed instructions how to oper¬ 
ate with the strange recipe that he had shown 
him. 

“ You had better trust me fully, my good sir,” 
said he. Not but what I will give you all the 
aid I can without it; for you have done me a 
greater benefit than you are aware of, before¬ 
hand. No — you will not ? Well, if you can 
change your mind, seek me out in Boston, where 
I have seen fit to settle in the practice of my 
176 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


profession, and I will serve you according to 
your folly ; for folly it is, I warn you.” 

Nothing else worthy of record is known to 
have passed during the doctor’s visit; and in 
due time he disappeared, as it were, in a whilf 
of tobacco smoke, leaving an odor of brandy 
and tobacco behind him, and a traditionary mem¬ 
ory of a wizard that had been there. Septimius 
went to work with what items of knowledge he 
had gathered from him ; but the interview had 
at least made him aware of one thing, which 
was, that he must provide himself with all pos¬ 
sible quantity of scientific knowledge of botany, 
and perhaps more extensive knowledge, in order 
to be able to concoct the recipe. It was the fruit 
of all the scientific attainment of the age that 
produced it (so said the legend, which seemed 
reasonable enough), a great philosopher had 
wrought his learning into it; and this had been 
attempered, regulated, improved, by the quick, 
bright intellect of his scholar. Perhaps, thought 
Septimius, another deep and earnest intelligence 
added to these two may bring the precious re¬ 
cipe to still greater perfection. At least it shall 
be tried. So thinking, he gathered together all 
the books that he could find relating to such 
studies ; he spent one day, moreover, in a walk 
to Cambridge, where he searched the alcoves of 
the college library for such works as it con¬ 
tained ; and borrowing them from the war-dis- 
177 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


turbed institution of learning, he betook himself 
homewards, and applied himself to the study 
with an earnestness of zealous application that 
perhaps has been seldom equalled in a study of 
so quiet a character. A month or two of study, 
with practice upon such plants as he found upon 
his hilltop, and along the brook and in other 
neighboring localities, sufficed to do a great deal 
for him. In this pursuit he was assisted by 
Sibyl, who proved to have great knowledge in 
some botanical departments, especially among 
flowers ; and in her cold and quiet way, she met 
him on this subject and glided by his side, as she 
had done so long, a companion, a daily observer 
and observed of him, mixing herself up with his 
pursuits, as if she were an attendant sprite upon 
him. 

But this pale girl was not the only associate 
of his studies, the only instructress, whom Sep- 
timius found. The observation which Doctor 
Portsoaken made about the fantastic possibility 
that Aunt Keziah might have inherited the same 
recipe from her Indian ancestry which had been 
struck out by the science of Friar Bacon and his 
pupil had not failed to impress Septimius, and 
to remain on his memory. So, not long after 
the doctor’s departure, the young man took oc¬ 
casion one evening to say to his aunt that he 
thought his stomach was a little out of order 
with too much application, and that perhaps 
178 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


she could give him some herb drink or other 
that would be good for him. 

‘‘That I can, Seppy, my darling/* said the 
old woman, “ and I *m glad you have the sense 
to ask for it at last. Here it is in this bottle; 
and though that foolish, blaspheming doctor 
turned up his old brandy nose at it, I *11 drink 
with him any day and come off better than he.** 
So saying, she took out of the closet her 
brown jug, stopped with a cork that had a rag 
twisted round it to make it tighter, filled a mug 
half full of the concoction, and set it on the 
table before Septimius. 

“ There, child, smell of that; the smell merely 
will do you good; but drink it down, and you *11 
live the longer for it.** 

“ Indeed, Aunt Keziah, is that so?** asked 
Septimius, a little startled by a recommendation 
which in some measure tallied with what he 
wanted in a medicine. “ That *s a good quality.** 
He looked into the mug, and saw a turbid, 
yellow concoction, not at all attractive to the 
eye ; he smelt of it, and was partly of opinion 
that Aunt Keziah had mixed a certain unfra- 
grant vegetable, called skunk cabbage, with the 
other ingredients of her witch drink. He tasted 
it; not a mere sip, but a good, genuine gulp, 
being determined to have real proof of what the 
stuff was in all respects. The draught seemed 
at first to burn in his mouth, unaccustomed to 
179 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


any drink but water, and to go scorching all the 
way down into his stomach, making him sensi¬ 
ble of the depth of his inwards by a track of 
fire, far, far down ; and then, worse than the 
fire, came a taste of hideous bitterness and nau¬ 
seousness, which he had not previously conceived 
to exist, and which threatened to stir up his 
bowels into utter revolt; but knowing Aunt 
Keziah’s touchiness with regard to this concoc¬ 
tion, and how sacred she held it, he made an 
effort of real heroism, squelched down his agony, 
and kept his face quiet, with the exception of 
one strong convulsion, which he allowed to twist 
across it for the sake of saving his life. 

‘‘It tastes as if it might have great potency 
in it. Aunt Keziah,” said this unfortunate young 
man; “ I wish you would tell me what it is made 
of, and how you brew it; for I have observed 
you are very strict and secret about it.'* 

“Aha ! you have seen that, hav'e you ? " said 
Aunt Keziah, taking a sip of her beloved liquid, 
and grinning at him with a face and eyes as yel¬ 
low as that she was drinking. In fact, the idea 
struck him, that in temper, and all appreciable 
qualities. Aunt Keziah was a good deal like this 
drink of hers, having probably become saturated 
by them while she drank of it. And then, having 
drunk, she gloated over it, and tasted, and smelt 
of the cup of this hellish wine, as a winebibber 
does of that which is most fragrant and delicate. 
i8o 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


“ And you want to know how I make it ? But 
first, child, tell me honestly, do you love this 
drink of mine ? Otherwise, here, and at once, 
we stop talking about it.” 

“ I love it for its virtues,” said Septimius, 
temporizing with his conscience, “ and would 
prefer it on that account to the rarest wines.” 

So far good,” said Aunt Keziah, who could 
not well conceive that her liquor should be 
otherwise than delicious to the palate. “It is 
the most virtuous liquor that ever was; and 
therefore one need not fear drinking too much 
of it. And you want to know what it is made 
of? Well, I have often thought of telling you, 
Seppy, my boy, when you should come to be 
old enough; for I have no other inheritance to 
leave you, and you are all of my blood, unless 
I should happen to have some far-off uncle 
among the Cape Indians. But first, you must 
know how this good drink, and the faculty of 
making it, came down to me from the chiefs, 
and sachems, and Peow-wows, that were your 
ancestors and mine, Septimius, and from the old 
wizard who was my great-grandfather and yours, 
and who, they say, added the fire water to the 
other ingredients, and so gave it the only one 
thing that it wanted to make it perfect.” 

And so Aunt Keziah, who had now put her¬ 
self into a most comfortable and jolly state by 
sipping again, and after pressing Septimius to 

i8i 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


mind his draught (who declined, on the plea 
that one dram at a time was enough for a new 
beginner, its virtues being so strong as well as 
admirable), the old woman told him a legend 
strangely wild and uncouth, and mixed up of 
savage and civilized life, and of the superstitions 
of both, but which yet had a certain analogy, 
that impressed Septimius much, to the story that 
the doctor had told him. 

She said that, many ages ago, there had been 
a wild sachem in the forest, a king among the 
Indians, and from whom, the old lady said, with 
a look of pride, she and Septimius were lineally 
descended, and were probably the very last who 
inherited one drop of that royal, wise, and war¬ 
like blood. The sachem had lived very long, 
longer than anybody knew, for the Indians kept 
no record, and could only talk of a great num¬ 
ber of moons ; and they said he was as old, or 
older, than the oldest trees; as old as the hills 
almost, and could remember back to the days 
of godlike men, who had arts then forgotten. He 
was a wise and good man, and could foretell as 
far into the future as he could remember into the 
past; and he continued to live on, till his peo¬ 
ple were afraid that he would live forever, and 
so disturb the whole order of nature; and they 
thought it time that so good a man, and so great 
a warrior and wizard, should be gone to the 
happy hunting grounds, and that so wise a 
182 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


counsellor should go and tell his experience of 
life to the Great Father, and give him an ac¬ 
count of matters here, and perhaps lead him to 
make some changes in the conduct of the lower 
world. And so, all these things duly consid¬ 
ered, they very reverently assassinated the great, 
never dying sachem; for though safe against 
disease, and undecayable by age, he was capable 
of being killed by violence, though the hard¬ 
ness of his skull broke to fragments the stone 
tomahawk with which they at first tried to kill 
him. 

So a deputation of the best and bravest of the 
tribe went to the great sachem, and told him 
their thought, and reverently desired his con¬ 
sent to be put out of the world; and the undy¬ 
ing one agreed with them that it was better for 
his own comfort that he should die, and that he 
had long been weary of the world, having learned 
all that it could teach him, and having, chiefly, 
learned to despair of ever making the red race 
much better than they now were. So he cheer¬ 
fully consented, and told them to kill him if 
they could : and first they tried the stone hatchet, 
which was broken against his skull; and then 
they shot arrows at him, which could not pierce 
the toughness of his skin; and finally they plas¬ 
tered up his nose and mouth (which kept utter¬ 
ing wisdom to the last) with clay, and set him 
to bake in the sun ; so at last his life burnt out 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

of his breast, tearing his body to pieces, and he 
died. 

\_Make this legend grotesque^ and express the 
weariness of the tribe at the intolerable control 
the undying one had of them; his always bringing 
up precepts from his own experience^ never con¬ 
senting to anything new^ and so impeding pro¬ 
gress ; his habits hardening into him^ his ascribing 
to himself all wisdom^ and depriving everybody of 
his right to successive command; his endless talky 
and dwelling on the pasty so that the world could 
not bear him. Describe his ascetic and severe hab- 
itSy his rigid calmnesSy etc^ 

But before the great sagamore died he im¬ 
parted to a chosen one of his tribe, the next 
wisest to himself, the secret of a potent and de¬ 
licious drink, the constant imbibing of which, 
together with his abstinence from luxury and 
passion, had kept him alive so long, and would 
doubtless have compelled him to live forever. 
This drink was compounded of many ingredi¬ 
ents, all of which were remembered and handed 
down in tradition, save one, which, either be¬ 
cause it was nowhere to be found, or for some 
other reason, was forgotten; so that the drink 
ceased to give immortal life as before. They 
say it was a beautiful purple flower. \_Perhaps 
the Devil taught him the drinky or else the Great 
Spirity — doubtful which,"] But it still was a 
most excellent drink, and conducive to health, 
184 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and the cure of all diseases ; and the Indians had 
it at the time of the settlement by the English; 
and at one of those wizard meetings in the for¬ 
est, where the Black Man used to meet his red 
children and his white ones, and be jolly with 
them, a great Indian wizard taught the secret to 
Septimius’s great-grandfather, who was a wizard, 
and died for it; and he, in return, taught the 
Indians to mix it with rum, thinking that this 
might be the very ingredient that was missing, 
and that by adding it he might give endless life 
to himself and all his Indian friends, among 
whom he had taken a wife. 

“ But your great-grandfather, you know, had 
not a fair chance to test its virtues, having been 
hanged for a wizard ; and as for the Indians, they 
probably mixed too much fire water with their 
liquid, so that it burnt them up, and they all 
died ; and my mother, and her mother, — who 
taught the drink to me, — and her mother afore 
her, thought it a sin to try to live longer than the 
Lord pleased, so they let themselves die. And 
though the drink is good, Septimius, and tooth¬ 
some, as you see, yet I sometimes feel as if I 
were getting old, like other people, and may die 
in the course of the next half-century ; so perhaps 
the rum was not just the thing that was wanting 
to make up the recipe. But it is very good ! 
Take a drop more of it, dear.” 

Not at present, I thank you. Aunt Keziah,” 
185 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


said Septimius gravely ; but will you tell me 
what the ingredients are, and how you make 
it ? ” 

“Yes, I will, my boy, and you shall write 
them down,*’ said the old woman ; “ for it *s a 
good drink, and none the worse, it may be, for 
not making you live forever. I sometimes think 
I had as lief go to heaven as keep on living 
here.’* 

Accordingly, making Septimius take pen and 
ink, she proceeded to tell him a list of plants 
and herbs and forest productions, and he was 
surprised to find that it agreed most wonderfully 
with the recipe contained in the old manuscript, 
as he had puzzled it out, and as it had been ex¬ 
plained by the doctor. There were a few varia¬ 
tions, it is true ; but even here there was a close 
analogy, plants indigenous to America being 
substituted for cognate productions, the growth 
of Europe. Then there was another differ¬ 
ence in the mode of preparation. Aunt Keziah’s 
nostrum being a concoction, whereas the old 
manuscript gave a process of distillation. This 
similarity had a strong effect on Septimius’s 
imagination. Here was, in one case, a drink 
suggested, as might be supposed, to a primi¬ 
tive people by something similar to that in¬ 
stinct by which the brute creation recognizes 
the medicaments suited to its needs, so that 
they mixed up fragrant herbs for reasons wiser 

i86 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


than they knew, and made them Into a salutary 
potion; and here, again, was a drink contrived 
by the utmost skill of a great civilized philoso¬ 
pher, searching the whole field of science for his 
purpose : and these two drinks proved, in all 
essential particulars, to be identically the same. 

O Aunt Keziah,” said he, with a longing 
earnestness, are you sure that you cannot re¬ 
member that one ingredient ? ” 

‘^No, Septimius, I cannot possibly do It,” 
said she. ‘‘ I have tried many things, skunk 
cabbage, wormwood, and a thousand things ; for 
it is truly a pity that the chief benefit of the 
thing should be lost for so little. But the only 
effect was, to spoil the good taste of the stuff, 
and, two or three times, to poison myself, so 
that I broke out all over blotches, and once 
lost the use of my left arm, and got a dizziness 
in the head, and a rheumatic twist in my knee, 
a hardness of hearing, and a dimness of sight, 
and the trembles: all of which I certainly be¬ 
lieve to have been caused by my putting some¬ 
thing else into this blessed drink besides the 
good New England rum. Stick to that, Seppy, 
my dear.” 

So saying. Aunt Kezlah took yet another sip 
of the beloved liquid, after vainly pressing Septi¬ 
mius to do the like ; and then lighting her old 
clay pipe, she sat down In the chimney corner, 
meditating, dreaming, muttering pious prayers 
187 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and ejaculations, and sometimes looking up the 
wide flue of the chimney, with thoughts, per¬ 
haps, how delightful it must have been to fly 
up there, in old times, on excursions by mid¬ 
night into the forest, where was the Black Man, 
and the Puritan deacons and ladies, and those 
wild Indian ancestors of hers; and where the 
wildness of the forest was so grim and delight¬ 
ful, and so unlike the commonplaceness in which 
she spent her life. For thus did the savage 
strain of the woman, mixed up as it was with 
the other weird and religious parts of her com¬ 
position, sometimes snatch her back into bar¬ 
barian life and its instincts; and in Septimius, 
though further diluted, and modified likewise 
by higher cultivation, there was the same tend¬ 
ency. 

Septimius escaped from the old woman, and 
was glad to breathe the free air again, so much 
had he been wrought upon by her wild legends 
and wild character, the more powerful by its 
analogy with his own; and perhaps, too, his 
brain had been a little bewildered by the draught 
of her diabolical concoction which she had com¬ 
pelled him to take. At any rate, he was glad 
to escape to his hilltop, the free air of which 
had doubtless contributed to keep him in health 
through so long a course of morbid thought 
and estranged study as he had addicted him¬ 
self to. 


i88 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Here, as it happened, he found both Rose 
Garfield and Sibyl Dacy, whom the pleasant 
summer evening had brought out. They had 
formed a friendship, or at least society; and 
there could not well be a pair more unlike,— 
the one so natural, so healthy, so fit to live in 
the world; the other such a morbid, pale thing. 
So there they were, walking arm in arm, with 
one arm round each other’s waist, as girls love 
to do. They greeted the young man in their 
several ways, and began to walk to and fro to¬ 
gether, looking at the sunset as it came on, and 
talking of things on earth and in the clouds. 

“When has Robert Hagburn been heard 
from ? ” asked Septimius, who, involved in his 
own pursuits, was altogether behindhand in the 
matters of the war, — shame to him for it! 

“ There came news, two days past,” said 
Rose, blushing. “He is on his way home with 
the remnant of General Arnold’s command, and 
will be here soon.” 

“ He is a brave fellow, Robert,” said Septi¬ 
mius carelessly. “ And I know not, since life 
is so short, that anything better can be done 
with it than to risk it as he does.” 

“ I truly think not,” said Rose Garfield com¬ 
posedly. 

“ What a blessing it is to mortals,” said Sibyl 
Dacy, “ what a kindness of Providence, that life 
is made so uncertain ; that death is thrown in 
189 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


among the possibilities of our being; that these 
awful mysteries are thrown around us, into which 
we may vanish ! For, without it, how would 
it be possible to be heroic, how should we plod 
along in commonplaces forever, never dreaming 
high things, never risking anything ? For my 
part, I think man is more favored than the an¬ 
gels, and made capable of higher heroism, greater 
virtue, and of a more excellent spirit than they, 
because we have such a mystery of grief and 
terror around us ; whereas they, being in a cer¬ 
tainty of God’s light, seeing his goodness and 
his purposes more perfectly than we, cannot be 
so brave as often poor weak man, and weaker 
woman, has the opportunity to be, and some¬ 
times makes use of it. God gave the whole 
world to man, and if he is left alone with it, it 
will make a clod of him at last; but, to remedy 
that, God gave man a grave, and it redeems all, 
while it seems to destroy all, and makes an im¬ 
mortal spirit of him in the end.” 

Dear Sibyl, you are inspired,” said Rose, 
gazing in her face. 

I think you ascribe a great deal too much 
potency to the grave,” said Septimius, pausing 
involuntarily alone by the little hillock, whose 
contents he knew so well. ‘‘ The grave seems 
to me a vile pitfall, put right in our pathway, 
and catching most of us, — all of us, — causing 
us to tumble in at the most inconvenient oppor- 
190 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


tunitles, so that all human life is a jest and a 
farce, just for the sake of this inopportune 
death; for I observe it never waits for us to 
accomplish anything: we may have the salva¬ 
tion of a country in hand, but we are none the 
less likely to die for that. So that, being a 
believer, on the whole, in the wisdom and gra¬ 
ciousness of Providence, I am convinced that 
dying is a mistake, and that by and by we shall 
overcome it. I say there is no use in the grave.” 

“ I still adhere to what I said,” answered 
Sibyl Dacy; and besides, there is another use 
of a grave which I have often observed in old 
English graveyards, where the moss grows green, 
and embosses the letters of the gravestones; and 
also graves are very good for flower beds.” 

Nobody ever could tell when the strange 
girl was going to say what was laughable,— 
when what was melancholy ; and neither of 
SibyPs auditors knew quite what to make of 
this speech. Neither could Septimius fail to 
be a little startled by seeing her, as she spoke 
of the grave as a flower bed, stoop down to the 
little hillock to examine the flowers, which, in¬ 
deed, seemed to prove her words by growing 
there in strange abundance, and of many sorts; 
so that, if they could all have bloomed at once, 
the spot would have looked like a bouquet by 
itself, or as if the earth were richest in beauty 
there, or as if seeds had been lavished by some 
191 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


florist. Septimius could not account for it, for 
though the hillside did produce certain flowers, 

— the aster, the golden-rod, the violet, and 
other such simple and common things, — yet 
this seemed as if a carpet of bright colors had 
been thrown down there and covered the spot. 

This is very strange,” said he. 

‘‘ Yes,” said Sibyl Dacy, “ there is some 
strange richness in this little spot of soil.” 

Where could the seeds have come from ? 

— that is the greatest wonder,” said Rose. 

You might almost teach me botany, methinks, 

on this one spot.” 

“ Do you know this plant ? ” asked Sibyl of 
Septimius, pointing to one not yet in flower, 
but of singular leaf, that was thrusting itself up 
out of the ground, on the very centre of the 
grave, over where the breast of the sleeper be¬ 
low might seem to be. “ I think there is no 
other here like it.” 

Septimius stooped down to examine it, and 
was convinced that it was unlike anything he 
had seen of the flower kind ; a leaf of a dark 
green, with purple veins traversing it, it had a 
sort of questionable aspect, as some plants have, 
so that you would think it very likely to be 
poison, and would not like to touch or smell 
very intimately, without first inquiring who 
would be its guarantee that it should do no mis- 
192 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


chief. That it had some richness or other, 
either baneful or beneficial, you could not doubt. 

I think it poisonous,’’ said Rose Garfield, 
shuddering, for she was a person so natural she 
hated poisonous things, or anything speckled 
especially, and did not, indeed, love strange¬ 
ness. Yet 1 should not wonder if it bore a 
beautiful flower by and by. Nevertheless, if I 
were to do just as I feel inclined, I should root 
it up and fling it away.” 

“ Shall she do so ? ” said Sibyl to Septimius. 

‘^Not for the world,” said he hastily. 

Above all things, I desire to see what will 
come of this plant.” 

“ Be it as you please,” said Sibyl. Mean¬ 
while, if you like to sit down here and listen to 
me, I will tell you a story that happens to come 
into my mind just now, — I cannot tell why. 
It is a legend of an old hall that I know well, 
and have known from my childhood, in one of 
the northern counties of England, where I was 
born. Would you like to hear it. Rose ? ” 

“ Yes, of all things,” said she. “ I like all 
stories of hall and cottage in the old country, 
though now we must not call it our country 
any more.” 

Sibyl looked at Septimius, as if to inquire 
whether he, too, chose to listen to her story, 
and he made answer: — 

193 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


^‘Yes, I shall like to hear the legend, if it is 
a genuine one that has been adopted into the 
popular belief, and came down in chimney 
corners with the smoke and soot that gathers 
there ; and incrusted over with humanity, by 
passing from one homely mind to another. 
Then, such stories get to be true, in a certain 
sense, and indeed in that sense may be called 
true throughout, for the very nucleus, the fiction 
in them, seems to have come out of the heart 
of man in a way that cannot be imitated of 
malice aforethought. Nobody can make a tra¬ 
dition ; it takes a century to make it.” 

I know not whether this legend has the 
character you mean,” said Sibyl, ‘‘but it has 
lived much more than a century ; and here it is. 

“ On the threshold of one of the doors of 

-Hall there is a bloody footstep impressed 

into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody 
foot had just trodden there; and it is averred 
that, on a certain night of the year, and at a cer¬ 
tain hour of the night, if you go and look at 
that doorstep you will see the mark wet with 
fresh blood. Some have pretended to say that 
this appearance of blood was but dew; but can 
dew redden a cambric handkerchief? Will it 
crimson the finger tips when you touch it? 
And that is what the bloody footstep will surely 
do when the appointed night and hour come 
194 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


round, this very year, just as it would three 
hundred years ago. 

“ Well, but how did it come there ? I know 
not precisely in what age it was, but long ago, 
when light was beginning to shine into what 
were called the dark ages, there was a lord of 
-Hall who applied himself deeply to know¬ 
ledge and science, under the guidance of the 
wisest man of that age, — a man so wise that he 
was thought to be a wizard ; and, indeed, he may 
have been one, if to be a wizard consists in hav¬ 
ing command over secret powers of nature, that 
other men do not even suspect the existence of, 
and the control of which enables one to do feats 
that seem as wonderful as raising the dead. It 
is needless to tell you all the strange stories that 
have survived to this day about the old Hall; 
and how it is believed that the master of it, 
owing to his ancient science, has still a sort of 
residence there, and control of the place; and 
how, in one of the chambers, there is still his 
antique table, and his chair, and some rude old 
instruments and machinery, and a book, and 
everything in readiness, just as if he might still 
come back to finish some experiment. What 
it is important to say is, that one of the chief 
things to which the old lord applied himself was 
to discover the means of prolonging his own 
life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if 
not infinite; and such was his science, that he 

195 



SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


was believed to have attained this magnificent 
and awful purpose. 

So, as you may suppose, the man of sci¬ 
ence had great joy in having done this thing, 
both for the pride of it, and because it was so 
delightful a thing to have before him the pro¬ 
spect of endless time, which he might spend in 
adding more and more to his science, and so 
doing good to the world; for the chief obstruc¬ 
tion to the improvement of the world and the 
growth of knowledge is, that mankind cannot 
go straight forward in it, but continually there 
have to be new beginnings, and it takes every 
new man half his life, if not the whole of it, 
to come up to the point where his predecessor 
left off. And so this noble man — this man of 
a noble purpose — spent many years in finding 
out this mighty secret; and at last, it is said, 
he succeeded. But on what terms ? 

“ Well, it is said that the terms were dreadful 
and horrible ; insomuch that the wise man hesi¬ 
tated whether it were lawful and desirable to 
take advantage of them, great as was the object 
in view. 

You see, the object of the lord of-Hall 

was to take a life from the course of Nature, and 
Nature did not choose to be defrauded ; so that, 
great as was the power of this scientific man 
over her, she would not consent that he should 
escape the necessity of dying at his proper time, 
196 



SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


except upon condition of sacrificing some other 
life for his ; and this was to be done once for 
every thirty years that he chose to live, thirty 
years being the account of a generation of man ; 
and if in any way, in that time, this lord could 
be the death of a human being, that satisfied the 
requisition, and he might live on. There is a 
form of the legend which says, that one of the 
ingredients of the drink which the nobleman 
brewed by his science was the heart’s blood of 
a pure young boy or girl. But this I reject, as 
too coarse an idea; and, indeed, I think it may 
be taken to mean symbolically, that the person 
who desires to engross to himself more than his 
share of human life must do it by sacrificing to 
his selfishness some dearest interest of another 
person, who has a good right to life, and may 
be as useful in it as he. 

‘‘ Now, this lord was a just man by nature, and 
if he had gone astray, it was greatly by reason of 
his earnest wish to do something for the poor, 
wicked, struggling, bloody, uncomfortable race 
of man, to which he belonged. He bethought 
himself whether he would have a right to take 
the life of one of those creatures, without their 
own consent, in order to prolong his own ; and 
after much arguing to and fro, he came to the 
conclusion that he should not have the right, 
unless it were a life over which he had control, 
and which was the next to his own. He looked 
197 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


round him ; he was a lonely and abstracted man, 
secluded by his studies from human affections, 
and there was but one human being whom he 
cared for; — that was a beautiful kinswoman, 
an orphan, whom his father had brought up, 
and, dying, left her to his care. There was 
great kindness and affection — as great as the 
abstracted nature of his pursuits would allow 
— on the part of this lord towards the beauti¬ 
ful young girl; but not what is called love, — 
at least, he never acknowledged it to himself. 
But, looking into his heart, he saw that she, if 
any one, was to be the person whom the sacrifice 
demanded, and that he might kill twenty others 
without effect, but if he took the life of this one, 
it would make the charm strong and good. 

“ My friends, I have meditated many a time 
on this ugly feature of my legend, and am un¬ 
willing to take it in the literal sense; so I con¬ 
ceive its spiritual meaning (for everything, you 
know, has its spiritual meaning, which to the lit¬ 
eral meaning is what the soul is to the body),— 
its spiritual meaning was, that to the deep pur¬ 
suit of science we must sacrifice great part of the 
joy of life; that nobody can be great, and do 
great things, without giving up to death, so far 
as he regards his enjoyment of it, much that he 
would gladly enjoy: and in that sense I choose 
to take it. But the earthly old legend will have it 
that this mad, high-minded, heroic, murderous 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


lord did insist upon it with himself that he must 
murder this poor, loving, and beloved child. 

‘‘ I do not wish to delay upon this horrible 
matter, and to tell you how he argued it with 
himself; and how, the more and more he argued 
it, the more reasonable it seemed, the more abso¬ 
lutely necessary, the more a duty, that the ter¬ 
rible sacrifice should be made. Here was this 
great good to be done to mankind, and all that 
stood in the way of it was one little delicate life, 
so frail that it was likely enough to be blown out, 
any day, by the mere rude blast that the rush of 
life creates, as it streams along, or by any slight¬ 
est accident; so good and pure, too, that she was 
quite unfit for this world, and not capable of any 
happiness in it; and all that was asked of her 
was to allow herself to be transported to a place 
where she would be happy, and would find com¬ 
panions fit for her, — which he, her only present 
companion, certainly was not. In fine, he re¬ 
solved to shed the sweet, fragrant blood of this 
little violet that loved him so. 

“Well, let us hurry over this part of the story 
as fast as we can. He did slay this pure young 
girl: he took her into the wood near the house, 
an old wood that is standing yet, with some of 
its magnificent oaks; and then he plunged a 
dagger into her heart, after they had had a very 
tender and loving talk together, in which he had 
tried to open the matter tenderly to her, and 
199 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


make her understand that, though he was to slay 
her, it was really for the very reason that he 
loved her better than anything else in the world, 
and that he would far rather die hiniself, if that 
would answer the purpose at all. Indeed, he is 
said to have offered her the alternative of slay¬ 
ing him, and taking upon herself the burden of 
indefinite life, and the studies and pursuits by 
which he meant to benefit mankind. But she, 
it is said, — this noble, pure, loving child, — 
she looked up into his face and smiled sadly, and 
then snatching the dagger from him, she plunged 
it into her own heart. I cannot tell whether 
this be true, or whether she waited to be killed 
by him; but this I know, that in the same cir¬ 
cumstances I think I should have saved my lover 
or my friend the pain of killing me. There she 
lay dead, at any rate, and he buried her in the 
wood, and returned to the house; and, as it 
happened, he had set his right foot in her blood, 
and his shoe was wet in it, and by some mirac¬ 
ulous fate it left a track all along the wood 
path, and into the house, and on the stone steps 
of the threshold, and up into his chamber, all 
along; and the servants saw it the next day, and 
wondered, and whispered, and missed the fair 
young girl, and looked askance at their lord's 
right foot, and turned pale, all of them, as death. 

‘‘And next, the legend says, that Sir Forres¬ 
ter was struck with horror at what he had done, 
200 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and could not bear the laboratory where he had 
toiled so long, and was sick to death of the object 
that he had pursued, and was most miserable, and 
fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a 
day. But all the while he was gone there was the 
mark of a bloody footstep impressed upon the 
stone doorstep of the Hall. The track had lain 
all along through the wood path, and across the 
lawn, to the old Gothic door of the Hall; but 
the rain, the English rain, that is always falling, 
had come the next day, and washed it all away. 
The track had lain, too, across the broad hall, 
and up the stairs, and into the lord’s study; but 
there it had lain on the rushes that were strewn 
there, and these the servants had gathered care¬ 
fully up, and thrown them away, and spread fresh 
ones. So that it was only on the threshold that 
the mark remained. 

“ But the legend says, that wherever Sir For¬ 
rester went in his wanderings about the world, 
he left a bloody track behind him. It was won¬ 
derful, and very inconvenient, this phenomenon. 
When he went into a church, you would see the 
track up the broad aisle, and a little red puddle 
in the place where he sat or knelt. Once he 
went to the king’s court, and there being a track 
up to the very throne, the king frowned upon 
him, so that he never came there any more. 
Nobody could tell how it happened ; his foot 
was not-seen to bleed, only there was the bloody 
201 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


track behind him, wherever he went; and he was 
a horror-stricken man, always looking behind 
him to see the track, and then hurrying onward, 
as if to escape his own tracks; but always they 
followed him as fast. 

“In the hall of feasting, there was the bloody 
track to his chair. The learned men whom he 
consulted about this strange difficulty conferred 
with one another, and with him, who was equal 
to any of them, and pished and pshawed, and 
said, ‘ O, there is nothing miraculous in this; 
it is only a natural infirmity, which can easily 
be put an end to, though, perhaps, the stop¬ 
page of such an evacuation will cause damage to 
other parts of the frame.’ Sir Forrester always 
said, ^ Stop it, my learned brethren, if you can ; 
no matter what the consequences.’ And they 
did their best, but without result; so that he was 
still compelled to leave his bloody track on their 
college rooms and combination rooms, the same 
as elsewhere; and in street and in wilderness,— 
yes, and in the battlefield, — they said, his track 
looked freshest and reddest of all. So, at last, 
finding the notice he attracted inconvenient, this 
unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his 
own Hall, where, living among faithful old ser¬ 
vants born in the family, he could hush the mat¬ 
ter up better than elsewhere, and not be stared 
at continually, or, glancing round, see people 
holding up their hands in terror at seeing a 
202 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

bloody track behind him. And so home he 
came, and there he saw the bloody track on the 
doorstep, and dolefully went into the hall, and 
up the stairs, an old servant ushering him into 
his chamber, and half a dozen others following 
behind, gazing, shuddering, pointing with quiv¬ 
ering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one 
another's pale faces, and the moment he had 
passed, running to get fresh rushes, and to scour 
the stairs. The next day. Sir Forrester went 
into the wood, and by the aged oak he found a 
grave, and on the grave he beheld a beautiful 
crimson flower; the most gorgeous and beauti¬ 
ful surely, that ever grew; so rich it looked, so 
full of potent juice. That flower he gathered ; 
and the spirit of his scientific pursuits coming 
upon him, he knew that this was the flower, pro¬ 
duced out of a human life, that was essential to 
the perfection of his recipe for immortality ; and 
he made the drink, and drank it, and became 
immortal in woe and agony, still studying, still 
growing wiser and more wretched in every age. 
By and by he vanished from the old Hall, but 
not by death; for, from generation to genera¬ 
tion, they say that a bloody track is seen around 
that house, and sometimes it is tracked up into 
the chambers, so freshly that you see he must 
have passed a short time before; and he grows 
wiser and wiser, and lonelier and lonelier, from 
age to age. And this is the legend of the bloody 
203 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


footstep, which I myself have seen at the Hall 
door. As to the flower, the plant of it contin¬ 
ued for several years to grow out of the grave; 
and after a while, perhaps a century ago, it was 

transplanted into the garden of-Hall, and 

preserved with great care, and is so still. And 
as the family attribute a kind of sacredness, or 
cursedness, to the flower, they can hardly be 
prevailed upon to give any of the seeds, or 
allow it to be propagated elsewhere, though the 
king should send to ask it. It is said, too, that 
there is still in the family the old lord’s recipe 
for immortality, and that several of his collateral 
descendants have tried to concoct it, and instil 
the flower into it, and so give indefinite life ; but 
unsuccessfully, because the seeds of the flower 
must be planted in a fresh grave of bloody 
death, in order to make it effectual.” 

So ended Sibyl’s legend; in which Septimius 
was struck by a certain analogy to Aunt Keziah’s 
Indian legend, — both referring to a flower grow¬ 
ing out of a grave ; and also he did not fail to 
be impressed with the wild coincidence of this 
disappearance of an ancestor of the family long 
ago, and the appearance, at about the same 
epoch, of the first known ancestor of his own 
family, the man with wizard’s attributes, with 
the bloody footstep, and whose sudden disap¬ 
pearance became a myth, under the idea that the 
204 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

Devil carried him away. Yet, on the whole, this 
wild tradition, doubtless becoming wilder in 
SibyPs wayward and morbid fancy, had the effect 
to give him a sense of the fantasticalness of his 
present pursuit, and that, in adopting it, he had 
strayed into a region long abandoned to super¬ 
stition, and where the shadows of forgotten 
dreams go when men are done with them ; where 
past worships are; where great Pan went when 
he died to the outer world; a limbo into which 
living men sometimes stray when they think 
themselves sensiblest and wisest, and whence 
they do not often find their way back into the 
real world. Visions of wealth, visions of fame, 
visions of philanthropy, — all visions find room 
here, and glide about without jostling. When 
Septimius came to look at the matter in his pre¬ 
sent mood, the thought occurred to him that he 
had perhaps got into such a limbo, and that 
SibyPs legend, which looked so wild, might be 
all of a piece with his own present life; for Sibyl 
herself seemed an illusion, and so, most strangely, 
did Aunt Keziah, whom he had known all his 
life, with her homely and quaint characteristics ; 
the grim doctor, with his brandy and his Ger¬ 
man pipe, impressed him in the same way : and 
these, altogether, made his homely cottage by 
the wayside seem an unsubstantial edifice, such 
as castles in the air are built of, and the ground 
he trod on unreal; and that grave, which he 
205 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


knew to contain the decay of a beautiful young 
man, but a fictitious swell formed by the fantasy 
of his eyes. All unreal; all illusion ! Was Rose 
Garfield a deception too, with her daily beauty, 
and daily cheerfulness, and daily worth ? In 
short, it was such a moment as I suppose all 
men feel (at least, I can answer for one), when 
the real scene and picture of life swims, jars, 
shakes, seems about to be broken up and dis¬ 
persed, like the picture in a smooth pond, when 
we disturb its tranquil mirror by throwing in a 
stone; and though the scene soon settles itself, 
and looks as real as before, a haunting doubt 
keeps close at hand, as long as we live, asking. 
Is it stable ? Am I sure of it ? Am I certainly 
not dreaming ? See; it trembles again, ready 
to dissolve.’* 

Applying himself with earnest diligence to his 
attempt to decipher and interpret the mysterious 
manuscript, working with his whole mind and 
strength, Septimius did not fail of some flatter¬ 
ing degree of success. 

A good deal of the manuscript, as has been 
said, was in an ancient English script, although 
so uncouth and shapeless were the characters, 
that it was not easy to resolve them into letters, 
or to believe that they were anything but arbi¬ 
trary and dismal blots and scrawls upon the yel¬ 
low paper; without meaning, vague, like the 
206 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


misty and undefined germs of thought as they 
exist in our minds before clothing themselves 
in words. These, however, as he concentrated 
his mind upon them, took distincter shape, like 
cloudy stars at the power of the telescope, and 
became sometimes English, sometimes Latin, 
strangely patched together, as if, so accustomed 
was the writer to use that language in which all 
the science of that age was usually embodied, 
that he really mixed it unconsciously with the 
vernacular, or used both indiscriminately. There 
was some Greek, too, but not much. Then fre¬ 
quently came in the cipher, to the study of which 
Septimius had applied himself for some time 
back, with the aid of the books borrowed from 
the college library, and not without success. In¬ 
deed, it appeared to him, on close observation, 
that it had not been the intention of the writer 
really to conceal what he had written from any 
earnest student, but rather to lock it up for safety 
in a sort of coffer, of which diligence and insight 
should be the key, and the keen intelligence 
with which the meaning was sought should be 
the test of the seeker's being entitled to possess 
the secret treasure. 

Amid a great deal of misty stuff, he found 
the document to consist chiefly, contrary to his 
supposition beforehand, of certain rules of life ; 
he would have taken it, on a casual inspection, 
for an essay of counsel, addressed by some great 
207 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

and sagacious man to a youth in whom he felt an 
interest, — so secure and good a doctrine of life 
was propounded, such excellent maxims there 
were, such wisdom in all matters that came 
within the writer’s purview. It was as much 
like a digested synopsis of some old philoso¬ 
pher’s wise rules of conduct as anything else. 
But on closer inspection, Septimius, in his un¬ 
sophisticated consideration of this matter, was 
not so well satisfied. True, everything that was 
said seemed not discordant with the rules of so¬ 
cial morality ; not unwise : it was shrewd, saga¬ 
cious ; it did not appear to infringe upon the 
rights of mankind; but there was something left 
out, something unsatisfactory, — what was it ? 
There was certainly a cold spell in the docu¬ 
ment ; a magic, not of fire, but of ice ; and Sep¬ 
timius the more exemplified its power, in that 
he soon began to be insensible of it. It af¬ 
fected him as if it had been written by some 
greatly wise and worldly-experienced man, like 
the writer of Ecclesiastes; for it was full of 
truth. It was a truth that does not make men 
better, though perhaps calmer, and beneath 
which the buds of happiness curl up like tender 
leaves in a frost. What was the matter with 
this document, that the young man’s youth 
perished out of him as he read ? What icy 
hand had written it, so that the heart was chilled 
out of the reader? Not that Septimius was 
208 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


sensible of this character; at least, not long, — 
for as he read, there grew upon him a mood of 
calm satisfaction, such as he had never felt 
before. His mind seemed to grow clearer; his 
perceptions most acute; his sense of the reality 
of things grew to be such, that he felt as if he 
could touch and handle all his thoughts, feel 
round about all their outline and circumference, 
and know them with a certainty, as if they were 
material things. Not that all this was in the 
document itself; but by studying it so earnestly, 
and, as it were, creating its meaning anew for 
himself, out of such illegible materials, he 
caught the temper of the old writer’s mind, 
after so many ages as that tract had lain in the 
mouldy and musty manuscript. He was mag¬ 
netized with him ; a powerful intellect acted 
powerfully upon him ; perhaps, even, there was 
a sort of spell and mystic influence imbued into 
the paper, and mingled with the yellow ink, that 
steamed forth by the effort of this young man’s 
earnest rubbing, as it were, and by the action 
of his mind, applied to it as intently as he pos¬ 
sibly could; and even his handling the paper, 
his bending over it, and breathing upon it, had 
its effect. 

It is not in our power, nor in our wish, to 
produce the original form, nor yet the spirit, of 
a production which is better lost to the world : 
because it was the expression of a human intel- 
209 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


lect originally greatly gifted and capable of high 
things, but gone utterly astray, partly by its 
own subtlety, partly by yielding to the tempta¬ 
tions of the lower part of its nature, by yielding 
the spiritual to a keen sagacity of lower things, 
until it was quite fallen; and yet fallen in such 
a way, that it seemed not only to itself, but to 
mankind, not fallen at all, but wise and good, 
and fulfilling all the ends of intellect in such a 
life as ours, and proving, moreover, that earthly 
life was good, and all that the development of 
our nature demanded. All this is better for¬ 
gotten ; better burnt; better never thought 
over again ; and all the more, because its aspect 
was so wise, and even praiseworthy. But what 
we must preserve of it were certain rules of 
life and moral diet, not exactly expressed in the 
document, but which, as it were, on its being 
duly received into Septimius's mind, were pre¬ 
cipitated from the rich solution, and crystal¬ 
lized into diamonds, and which he found to be 
the moral dietetics, so to speak, by observing 
which he was to achieve the end of earthly im¬ 
mortality, whose physical nostrum was given in 
the recipe which, with the help of Doctor Port- 
soaken and his Aunt Keziah, he had already 
pretty satisfactorily made out. 

‘‘ Keep thy heart at seventy throbs in a 
minute ; all more than that wears away life too 
quickly. If thy respiration be too quick, think 
210 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


with thyself that thou hast sinned against natu¬ 
ral order and moderation. 

“ Drink not wine nor strong drink; and ob¬ 
serve that this rule is worthiest in its symbolic 
meaning. 

Bask daily in the sunshine and let it rest 
on thy heart. 

‘‘ Run not; leap not; walk at a steady pace, 
and count thy paces per day. 

“If thou feelest, at any time, a throb of the 
heart, pause on the instant, and analyze it; fix 
thy mental eye steadfastly upon it, and inquire 
why such commotion is. 

“ Hate not any man nor woman ; be not an¬ 
gry, unless at any time thy blood seem a little 
cold and torpid; cut out all rankling feelings, 
they are poisonous to thee. If, in thy waking 
moments, or in thy dreams, thou hast thoughts 
of strife or unpleasantness with any man, strive 
quietly with thyself to forget him. 

“ Have no friendships with an imperfect man, 
with a man in bad health, of violent passions, 
of any characteristic that evidently disturbs his 
own life, and so may have disturbing influence 
on thine. Shake not any man by the hand, 
because thereby, if there be any evil in the man, 
it is likely to be communicated to thee. 

“ Kiss no woman if her lips be red; look not 
upon her if she be very fair. Touch not her 
hand if thy finger tips be found to thrill with 

2II 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


hers ever so little. On the whole, shun woman, 
for she is apt to be a disturbing influence. If 
thou love her, all is over, and thy whole past 
and remaining labor and pains will be in vain. 

“ Do some decent degree of good and kind¬ 
ness in thy daily life, for the result is a slight 
pleasurable sense that will seem to warm and de- 
lectate thee with felicitous self-laudings ; and all 
that brings thy thoughts to thyself tends to in¬ 
vigorate that central principle by the growth of 
which thou art to give thyself indefinite life. 

Do not any act manifestly evil ; it may 
grow upon thee, and corrode thee in after years. 
Do not any foolish good act; it may change thy 
wise habits. 

Eat no spiced meats. Young chickens, new- 
fallen lambs, fruits, bread four days old, milk, 
freshest butter, will make thy fleshy tabernacle 
youthful. 

From sick people, maimed wretches, afflicted 
people, — all of whom show themselves at vari¬ 
ance with things as they should be, — from peo¬ 
ple beyond their wits, from people in a melan¬ 
cholic mood, from people in extravagant joy, 
from teething children, from dead corpses, turn 
away thine eyes and depart elsewhere. 

“ If beggars haunt thee, let thy servants drive 
them away, thou withdrawing out of earshot. 

‘‘ Crying and sickly children, and teething 
children, as aforesaid, carefully avoid. Drink 
212 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


the breath of wholesome infants as often as thou 
conveniently canst, — it is good for thy pur¬ 
pose ; also the breath of buxom maids, if thou 
mayest without undue disturbance of the flesh, 
drink it as a morning draught, as medicine; 
also the breath of cows as they return from rich 
pasture at eventide. 

‘‘If thou seest human poverty, or suffering, 
and it trouble thee, strive moderately to relieve 
it, seeing that thus thy mood will be changed 
to a pleasant self-laudation. 

“ Practise thyself in a certain continual smile, 
for its tendency will be to compose thy frame 
of being, and keep thee from too much wear. 

“ Search not to see if thou hast a gray hair; 
scrutinize not thy forehead to find a wrinkle, 
nor the corners of thy eyes to discover if they 
be corrugated. Such things, being gazed at, 
daily take heart and grow. 

“ Desire nothing too fervently, not even life ; 
yet keep thy hold upon it mightily, quietly, 
unshakably, for as long as thou really art re¬ 
solved to live, Death, with all his force, shall 
have no power against thee. 

“ Walk not beneath tottering ruins, nor 
houses being put up, nor climb to the top of a 
mast, nor approach the edge gf a precipice, nor 
stand in the way of the lightning, nor cross a 
swollen river, nor voyage at sea, nor ride a skit¬ 
tish horse, nor be shot at by an arrow, nor con-. 

213 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


front a sword, nor put thyself in the way of 
violent death; for this is hateful, and breaketh 
through all wise rules. 

Say thy prayers at bedtime, if thou deemest 
it will give thee quieter sleep; yet let it not 
trouble thee if thou forgettest them. 

‘‘ Change thy shirt daily; thereby thou cast- 
est off yesterday’s decay, and imbibest the fresh¬ 
ness of the morning’s life, which enjoy with 
smelling to roses and other healthy and fra¬ 
grant flowers, and live the longer for it. Roses 
are made to that end. 

Read not great poets; they stir up thy heart; 
and the human heart is a soil which, if deeply 
stirred, is apt to give out noxious vapors.” 

Such were some of the precepts which Sep- 
timius gathered and reduced to definite form out 
of this wonderful document; and he appreciated 
their wisdom, and saw clearly that they must be 
absolutely essential to the success of the medi¬ 
cine with which they were connected. In them¬ 
selves, almost, they seemed capable of prolong¬ 
ing life to an indefinite period, so wisely were 
they conceived, so well did they apply to the 
causes which almost invariably wear away this 
poor short life of men, years and years before 
even the shattered constitutions that they re¬ 
ceived from their forefathers need compel them 
to die. He deemed himself well rewarded for 
all his labor and pains, should nothing else fol- 
214 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


low but his reception and proper appreciation of 
these wise rules ; but continually, as he read the 
manuscript, more truths, and, for aught I know, 
profounder and more practical ones, developed 
themselves; and, indeed, small as the manu¬ 
script looked, Septimius thought that he should 
find a volume as big as the most ponderous folio 
in the college library too small to contain its wis¬ 
dom. It seemed to drip and distil with precious 
fragrant drops, whenever he took it out of his 
desk; it diffused wisdom like those vials of per¬ 
fume which, small as they look, keep diffusing 
an airy wealth of fragrance for years and years 
together, scattering their virtue in Incalculable 
volumes of invisible vapor, and yet are none 
the less in bulk for all they give; whenever he 
turned over the yellow leaves, bits of gold, dia¬ 
monds of good size, precious pearls, seemed to 
drop out from between them. 

And now ensued a surprise which, though of 
a happy kind, was almost too much for him to 
bear; for it made his heart beat considerably 
faster than the wise rules of his manuscript pre¬ 
scribed. Going up on his hilltop, as summer 
wore away (he had not been there for some 
time), and walking by the little flowery hillock, 
as so many a hundred times before, what should 
he see there but a new flower, that during the 
time he had been poring over the manuscript 
so sedulously had developed itself, blossomed, 
215 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


put forth its petals, bloomed into full perfec¬ 
tion, and now, with the dew of the morning 
upon it, was waiting to offer itself to Septimius ? 
He trembled as he looked at it; it was too much 
almost to bear, — it was so very beautiful, so 
very stately, so very rich, so very mysterious 
and wonderful. It was like a person, like a life ! 
Whence did it come ? He stood apart from it, 
gazing in wonder ; tremulously taking in its as¬ 
pect, and thinking of the legends he had heard 
from Aunt Keziah and from Sibyl Dacy; and 
how that this flower, like the one that their wild 
traditions told of, had grown out of a grave, — 
out of a grave in which he had laid one slain by 
himself. 

The flower was of the richest crimson, illu¬ 
minated with a golden centre of a perfect and 
stately beauty. From the best descriptions that 
I have been able to gain of it, it was more like 
a dahlia than any other flower with which I have 
acquaintance; yet it does not satisfy me to be¬ 
lieve it really of that species, for the dahlia is 
not a flower of any deep characteristics, either 
lively or malignant, and this flower, which Sep¬ 
timius found so strangely, seems to have had 
one or the other. If I have rightly understood, 
it had a fragrance which the dahlia lacks ; and 
there was something hidden in its centre, a mys¬ 
tery, even in its fullest bloom, not developing 
itself so openly as the heartless, yet not dishon- 
216 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


est, dahlia. I remember in England to have 
seen a flower at Eaton Hall, in Cheshire, in 
those magnificent gardens, which may have been 
like this, but my remembrance of it is not suf¬ 
ficiently distinct to enable me to describe it bet¬ 
ter than by saying that it was crimson, with a 
gleam of gold in its centre, which yet was partly 
hidden. It had many petals of great rich¬ 
ness. 

Septimius, bending eagerly over the plant, 
saw that this was not to be the only flower that 
it would produce that season ; on the contrary, 
there was to be a great abundance of them, a 
luxuriant harvest; as if the crimson offspring 
of this one plant would cover the whole hillock, 
— as if the dead youth beneath had burst into 
a resurrection of many crimson flowers ! And 
in its veiled heart, moreover, there was a mys¬ 
tery like death, although it seemed to cover 
something bright and golden. 

Day after day the strange crimson flower 
bloomed more and more abundantly, until it 
seemed almost to cover the little hillock, which 
became a mere bed of it, apparently turning all 
its capacity of production to this flower; for 
the other plants, Septimius thought, seemed to 
shrink away, and give place to it, as if they 
were unworthy to compare with the richness, 
the glory, and worth of this their queen. The 
fervent summer burned into it, the dew and 
217 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


the rain ministered to it; the soil was rich, for 
it was a human heart contributing its juices, — 
a heart in its fiery youth sodden in its own 
blood, so that passion, unsatisfied loves and 
longings, ambition that never won its object, 
tender dreams and throbs, angers, lusts, hates, 
all concentrated by life, came sprouting in it, 
and its mysterious being, and streaks and shad¬ 
ows, had some meaning in each of them. 

The two girls, when they next ascended the 
hill, saw the strange flower, and Rose admired 
it, and wondered at it, but stood at a distance, 
without showing an attraction towards it, rather 
an undefined aversion, as if she thought it 
might be a poison flower; at any rate, she 
would not be inclined to wear it in her bosom. 
Sibyl Dacy examined it closely, touched its 
leaves, smelt it, looked at it with a botanist’s 
eye, and at last remarked to Rose, “Yes, it 
grows well in this new soil; methinks it looks 
like a new human life.” 

“ What is the strange flower ? ” asked Rose. 

“ The Sanguinea sanguinissimay* said Sibyl. 

It so happened about this time that poor 
Aunt Keziah, in spite of her constant use of 
that bitter mixture of hers, was in a very bad 
state of health. She looked all of an unplea¬ 
sant yellow, with bloodshot eyes; she com¬ 
plained terribly of her inwards. She had an 
ugly rheumatic hitch in her motion from place 
218 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

to place, and was heard to mutter many wishes 
that she had a broomstick to fly about upon, 
and she used to bind up her head with a dish- 
clout, or what looked to be such, and would 
sit by the kitchen fire even in the warm days, 
bent over it, crouching as if she wanted to take 
the whole fire into her poor cold heart or giz¬ 
zard,— groaning regularly with each breath a 
spiteful and resentful groan, as if she fought 
womanfully with her infirmities; and she con¬ 
tinually smoked her pipe, and sent out the 
breath of her complaint visibly in that evil 
odor; and sometimes she murmured a little 
prayer, but somehow or other the evil and bit¬ 
terness, acridity, pepperiness, of her natural 
disposition overcame the acquired grace which 
compelled her to pray, insomuch that, after all, 
you would have thought the poor old woman 
was cursing with all her rheumatic might. All 
the time an old, broken-nosed, brown earthen 
jug, covered with the lid of a black teapot, 
stood on the edge of the embers, steaming for¬ 
ever, and sometimes bubbling a little, and 
giving a great puff, as if it were sighing and 
groaning in sympathy with poor Aunt Keziah, 
and when it sighed there came a great steam 
of herby fragrance, not particularly pleasant, 
into the kitchen. And ever and anon, — half 
a dozen times it might be, — of an afternoon. 
Aunt Keziah took a certain bottle from a pri- 
219 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


vate receptacle of hers, and also a teacup, and 
likewise a little, old-fashioned silver teaspoon, 
with which she measured three teaspoonfuls of 
some spirituous liquor into the teacup, half 
filled the cup with the hot decoction, drank it 
off, gave a grunt of content, and for the space 
of half an hour appeared to find life tolerable. 

But one day poor Aunt Keziah found her¬ 
self unable, partly from rheumatism, partly 
from other sickness or weakness, and partly 
from dolorous ill spirits, to keep about any 
longer, so she betook herself to her bed; and 
betimes in the forenoon Septimius heard a tre¬ 
mendous knocking on the floor of her bed¬ 
chamber, which happened to be the room above 
his own. He was the only person in or about 
the house; so with great reluctance he left his 
studies, which were upon the recipe, in respect 
to which he was trying to make out the mode 
of concoction, which was told in such a myste¬ 
rious way that he could not well tell either the 
quantity of the ingredients, the mode of tritu¬ 
ration, nor in what way their virtue was to be 
extracted and combined. 

Running hastily upstairs, he found Aunt 
Keziah lying in bed, and groaning with great 
spite and bitterness; so that, indeed, it seemed 
not improvidential that such an inimical state 
of mind towards the human race was accompa¬ 
nied with an almost inability of motion, else it 
220 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


would not be safe to be within a considerable 
distance of her. 

Seppy, you good-for-nothing, are you go¬ 
ing to see me lying here, dying, without trying 
to do anything for me ?'' 

‘‘ Dying, Aunt Keziah ? ” repeated the young 
man. “ I hope not! What can I do for you ? 
Shall I go for Rose ? or call a neighbor in ? or 
the doctor ? 

“No, no, you fool!” said the afflicted per¬ 
son. “You can do all that anybody can for 
me: and that is to put my mixture on the 
kitchen fire till it steams, and is just ready to 
bubble ; then measure three teaspoonfuls — or 
it may be four, as I am very bad — of spirit 
into a teacup, fill it half full, — or it may be 
quite full, for I am very bad, as I said afore; 
six teaspoonfuls of spirit into a cup of mixture, 
and let me have it as soon as may be; and 
don't break the cup, nor spill the precious mix¬ 
ture, for goodness knows when I can go into 
the woods to gather any more. Ah me! ah 
me 1 it's a wicked, miserable world, and I am 
the most miserable creature in it. Be quick, 
you good-for-nothing, and do as I say 1 ” 

Septimius hastened down ; but as he went a 
thought came into his head, which it occurred 
to him might result in great benefit to Aunt 
Keziah, as well as to the great cause of science 
and human good, and to the promotion of his 
221 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


own purpose, in the first place. A day or two 
ago, he had gathered several of the beautiful 
flowers, and laid them in the fervid sun to dry; 
and they now seemed to be in about the state 
in which the old woman was accustomed to use 
her herbs, so far as Septimius had observed. 
Now if these flowers were really, as there was 
so much reason for supposing, the one ingre¬ 
dient that had for hundreds of years been miss¬ 
ing out of Aunt Keziah’s nostrum, — if it was 
this which that strange Indian sagamore had 
mingled with his drink with such beneficial 
effect, — why should not Septimius now re¬ 
store it, and if it would not make his beloved 
aunt young again, at least assuage the violent 
symptoms, and perhaps prolong her valuable 
life some years, for the solace and delight of 
her numerous friends ? Septimius, like other 
people of investigating and active minds, had a 
great tendency to experiment, and so good an 
opportunity as the present, where (perhaps he 
thought) there was so little to be risked at 
worst, and so much to be gained, was not to 
be neglected; so, without more ado, he stirred 
three of the crimson flowers into the earthen 
jug, set it on the edge of the fire, stirred it 
well, and when it steamed, threw up little scar¬ 
let bubbles, and was about to boil, he measured 
out the spirits, as Aunt Keziah had bidden 
him, and then filled the teacup. 

222 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


“ Ah, this will do her good ; little does she 
think, poor old thing, what a rare and costly 
medicine is about to be given her. This will 
set her on her feet again.” 

The hue was somewhat changed, he thought, 
from what he had observed of Aunt Keziah’s 
customary decoction; instead of a turbid yellow, 
the crimson petals of the flower had tinged it, 
and made it almost red; not a brilliant red, 
however, nor the least inviting in appearance. 
Septimius smelt it, and thought he could distin¬ 
guish a little of the rich odor of the flower, but 
was not sure. He considered whether to taste 
it; but the horrible flavor of Aunt Keziah’s de¬ 
coction recurred strongly to his remembrance, 
and he concluded that were he evidently at the 
point of death, he might possibly be bold enough 
to taste it again; but that nothing short of the 
hope of a century's existence at least would re¬ 
pay another taste of that fierce and nauseous 
bitterness. Aunt Keziah loved it; and as she 
brewed, so let her drink. 

He went upstairs, careful not to spill a drop 
of the brimming cup, and approached the old 
woman's bedside, where she lay, groaning as 
before, and breaking out into a spiteful croak 
the moment he was within earshot. 

You don't care whether I live or die,'' said 
she. “ You've been waiting in hopes I shall 
die, and so save yourself further trouble.'' 

223 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


“ By no means. Aunt Keziah/* said Septi- 
mius. Here is the medicine, which I have 
warmed, and measured out, and mingled, as well 
as I knew how; and I think it will do you a 
great deal of good.” 

“ Won't you taste it, Seppy, my dear ? ” said 
Aunt Keziah, mollified by the praise of her be¬ 
loved mixture. “ Drink first, dear, so that my 
sick old lips need not taint it. You look pale, 
Septimius ; it will do you good.” 

“ No, Aunt Keziah, I do not need it; and 
it were a pity to waste your precious drink,” 
said he. 

It does not look quite the right color,” said 
Aunt Keziah, as she took the cup in her hand. 

You must have dropped some soot into it.” 
Then, as she raised it to her lips, ‘‘It does not 
smell quite right. But, woe's me ! how can I 
expect anybody but myself to make this pre¬ 
cious drink as it should be ? ” 

She drank it off at two gulps ; for she ap¬ 
peared to hurry it off faster than usual, as if not 
tempted by the exquisiteness of its flavor to 
dwell upon it so long. 

“You have not made it just right, Seppy,” 
said she in a milder tone than before, for she 
seemed to feel the customary soothing influence 
of the draught, “ but you ’ll do better the next 
time. It had a queer taste, methought; or is it 
that my mouth is getting out of taste ? Hard 
224 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


times it will be for poor Aunt Kezzy, if she’s 
to lose her taste for the medicine that, under 
Providence, has saved her life for so many 
years.” 

She gave back the cup to Septimius, after 
looking a little curiously at the dregs. 

It looks like bloodroot, don’t it? ” said she. 

Perhaps it’s my own fault after all. I gathered 
a fresh bunch of the yarbs yesterday afternoon, 
and put them to steep, and it may be I was a 
little blind, for it was between daylight and dark, 
and the moon shone on me before I had fin¬ 
ished. I thought how the witches used to gather 
their poisonous stuff at such times, and what 
pleasant uses they made of it, — but those are 
sinful thoughts, Seppy, sinful thoughts ! so I ’ll 
say a prayer and try to go to sleep. I feel very 
noddy all at once.” 

Septimius drew the bedclothes up about her 
shoulders, for she complained of being very 
chilly, and, carefully putting her stick within 
reach, went down to his own room, and resumed 
his studies, trying to make out from those aged 
hieroglyphics, to which he was now so well ac¬ 
customed, what was the precise method of mak¬ 
ing the elixir of immortality. Sometimes, as 
men in deep thought do, he rose from his chair, 
and walked to and fro the four or five steps or 
so that conveyed him from end to end of his 
little room. At one of these times he chanced 
225 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


to look in the little looking-glass that hung be¬ 
tween the windows, and was startled at the pale¬ 
ness of his face. It was quite white, indeed. 
Septimius was not in the least a foppish young 
man ; careless he was in dress, though often his 
apparel took an unsought picturesqueness that 
set off his slender, agile figure, perhaps from 
some quality of spontaneous arrangement that 
he had inherited from his Indian ancestry. Yet 
many women might have found a charm in that 
dark, thoughtful face, with its hidden fire and 
energy, although Septimius never thought of its 
being handsome, and seldom looked at it. Yet 
now he was drawn to it by seeing how strangely 
white it was, and, gazing at it, he observed that 
since he considered it last, a very deep furrow, 
or corrugation, or fissure, it might almost be 
called, had indented his brow, rising from the 
commencement of his nose towards the centre 
of the forehead. And he knew it was his brood¬ 
ing thought, his fierce, hard determination, his 
intense concentrativeness for so many months, 
that had been digging that furrow; and it must 
prove indeed a potent specific of the life water 
that would smooth that away, and restore him 
all the youth and elasticity that he had buried 
in that profound grave. 

But why was he so pale ? He could have 
supposed himself startled by some ghastly thing 
that he had just seen ; by a corpse in the next 
226 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


room, for Instance ; or else by the foreboding 
that one would soon be there ; but yet he was 
conscious of no tremor in his frame, no terror 
in his heart; as why should there be any ? Feel¬ 
ing his own pulse, he found the strong, regular 
beat that should be there. He was not ill, nor 
affrighted; not expectant of any pain. Then 
why so ghastly pale ? And why, moreover, Sep- 
timius, did you listen so earnestly for any sound 
in Aunt Keziah’s chamber ? Why did you creep 
on tiptoe, once, twice, three times, up to the old 
woman’s chamber, and put your ear to the key¬ 
hole, and listen breathlessly ? Well, it must have 
been that he was subconscious that he was try¬ 
ing a bold experiment, and that he had taken 
this poor old woman to be the medium of it, in 
the hope, of course, that it would turn out well; 
yet with other views than her interest in the 
matter. What was the harm of that ? Medi¬ 
cal men, no doubt, are always doing so, and he 
was a medical man for the time. Then why was 
he so pale ? 

He sat down and fell Into a reverie, which 
was partly suggested by that chief furrow which 
he had seen, and which we have spoken of, in 
his brow. He considered whether there was 
anything In this pursuit of his that used up life 
particularly fast ; so that, perhaps, unless he 
were successful soon, he should be incapable of 
renewal; for, looking within himself, and con- 
227 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


sidering his mode of being, he had a singular 
fancy that his heart was gradually drying up, 
and that he must continue to get some mois¬ 
ture for it, or else it would soon be like a with¬ 
ered leaf. Supposing his pursuit were vain, what 
a waste he was making of that little treasure of 
golden days, which was his all ! Could this be 
called life, which he was leading now ? How 
unlike that of other young men ! How unlike 
that of Robert Hagburn, for example ! There 
had come news yesterday of his having per¬ 
formed a gallant part in the battle of Mon¬ 
mouth, and being promoted to be a captain for 
his brave conduct. Without thinking of long 
life, he really lived in heroic actions and emo¬ 
tions ; he got much life in a little, and did not 
fear to sacrifice a lifetime of torpid breaths, if 
necessary, to the ecstasy of a glorious death ! 

\It appears from a written sketch by the author 
of this story ^ that he changed his first plan of mak¬ 
ing Septimius and Rose lovers^ and she was to be 
represented as his half-sister^ and in the copy for 
publication this alteration would have been made, 
— Ed.] 

And then Robert loved, too, loved his sister 
Rose, and felt, doubtless, an immortality in that 
passion. Why could not Septimius love too ? 
It was forbidden ! Well, no matter; whom 
could he have loved ? Who in all this world 
would have been suited to his secret, brooding 
228 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

heart, that he could have let her into its myste¬ 
rious chambers, and walked with her from one 
cavernous gloom to another, and said, Here 
are my treasures. I make thee mistress of all 
these; with all these goods I thee endow.” And 
then, revealing to her his great secret and pur¬ 
pose of gaining immortal life, have said : ‘‘ This 
shall be thine, too. Thou shalt share with me. 
We will walk along the endless path together, 
and keep one another's hearts warm, and so be 
content to live.” 

Ah, Septimius ! but now you are getting be¬ 
yond those rules of yours, which, cold as they 
are, have been drawn out of a subtle philosophy, 
and might, were it possible to follow them out, 
suffice to do all that you ask of them; but if 
you break them, you do it at the peril of your 
earthly immortality. Each warmer and quicker 
throb of the heart wears away so much of life. 
The passions, the affections, are a wine not to 
be indulged in. Love, above all, being in its 
essence an immortal thing, cannot be long con¬ 
tained in an earthly body, but would wear it out 
with its own secret power, softly invigorating as 
it seems. You must be cold, therefore, Septi¬ 
mius ; you must not even earnestly and passion¬ 
ately desire this immortality that seems so neces¬ 
sary to you. Else the very wish will prevent 
the possibility of its fulfilment. 

By and by, to call him out of these rhapso- 
229 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


dies, came Rose home; and finding the kitchen 
hearth cold, and Aunt Keziah missing, and no 
dinner by the fire, which was smouldering,— 
nothing but the portentous earthen jug, which 
fumed, and sent out long, ill-flavored sighs, — 
she tapped at Septimius's door, and asked him 
what was the matter. 

Aunt Keziah has had an ill turn,” said Sep- 
timius, ‘‘and has gone to bed.” 

“ Poor auntie! ” said Rose, with her quick 
sympathy. “ I will this moment run up and 
see if she needs anything.” 

“ No, Rose,” said Septimius, “ she has doubt¬ 
less gone to sleep, and will awake as well as 
usual. It would displease her much were you 
to miss your afternoon school; so you had bet¬ 
ter set the table with whatever there is left of 
yesterday's dinner, and leave me to take care of 
auntie.” 

“ Well,” said Rose, “ she loves you best; but 
if she be really ill, I shall give up my school and 
nurse her.” 

“No doubt,” said Septimius, “ she will be 
about the house again to-morrow.” 

So Rose ate her frugal dinner (consisting 
chiefly of purslain, and some other garden herbs, 
which her thrifty aunt had prepared for boiling), 
and went away as usual to her school; for Aunt 
Keziah, as aforesaid, had never encouraged the 
230 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


tender ministrations of Rose, whose orderly, 
womanly character, with its well-defined orb of 
daily and civilized duties, had always appeared 
to strike her as tame ; and she once said to her, 
“You are no squaw, child, and you’ll never 
make a witch.” Nor would she even so much 
as let Rose put her tea to steep, or do anything 
whatever for herself personally; though, cer¬ 
tainly, she was not backward in requiring of her 
a due share of labor for the general housekeep- 
ing. 

Septimius was sitting in his room, as the after¬ 
noon wore away ; because, for some reason or 
other, or, quite as likely, for no reason at all, he 
did not air himself and his thoughts, as usual, 
on the hill ; so he was sitting musing, thinking, 
looking into his mysterious manuscript, when 
he heard Aunt Keziah moving in the chamber 
above. First she seemed to rattle a chair ; then 
she began a slow, regular beat with the stick 
which Septimius had left by her bedside, and 
which startled him strangely, — so that, indeed, 
his heart beat faster than the five-and-seventy 
throbs to which he was restricted by the wise 
rules that he had digested. So he ran hastily 
upstairs, and behold. Aunt Keziah was sitting 
up in bed, looking very wild, — so wild that you 
would have thought she was going to fly up 
chimney the next minute ; her gray hair all 
231 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


dishevelled, her eyes staring, her hands clutch¬ 
ing forward, while she gave a sort of howl, what 
with pain and agitation. 

Seppy ! Seppy ! said she, — “ Seppy, my 
darling! are you quite sure you remember how 
to make that precious drink ?'' 

Quite well. Aunt Keziah,*' said Septimius, 
inwardly much alarmed by her aspect, but pre¬ 
serving a true Indian composure of outward 
mien. “ I wrote it down, and could say it by 
heart besides. Shall I make you a fresh pot of 
it? for I have thrown away the other.” 

“ That was well, Seppy,” said the poor old 
woman, for there is something wrong about it; 
but I want no more, for, Seppy, dear, I am going 
fast out of this world, where you and that pre¬ 
cious drink were my only treasures and comforts. 
I wanted to know if you remembered the re¬ 
cipe ; it is all I have to leave you, and the more 
you drink of it, Seppy, the better. Only see 
to make it right ! ” 

“ Dear auntie, what can I do for you ? ” said 
Septimius, in much consternation, but still calm. 
“ Let me run for the doctor, — for the neigh¬ 
bors ? Something must be done ! ” 

The old woman contorted herself as if there 
were a fearful time in her insides; and grinned, 
and twisted the yellow ugliness of her face, and 
groaned, and howled ; and yet there was a tough 
and fierce kind of endurance with which she 
232 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

fought with her anguish, and would not yield to 
it a jot, though she allowed herself the relief 
of shrieking savagely at it, — much more like a 
defiance than a cry for mercy. 

‘‘No doctor! no woman!” said she; “if 
my drink could not save me, what would a 
doctor’s foolish pills and powders do ? And 
a woman ! If old Martha Denton, the witch, 
were alive, I would be glad to see her. But 
other women ! Pah ! Ah ! Ai! O ! Phew ! 
Ah, Seppy, what a mercy it would be now if I 
could set to and blaspheme a bit, and shake my 
fist at the sky ! But I’m a Christian woman, 
Seppy, — a Christian woman.” 

“ Shall I send for the minister. Aunt Keziah ? ” 
asked Septimius. “He is a good man, and a 
wise one.” 

“No minister for me, Seppy,” said Aunt 
Keziah, howling as if somebody were choking 
her. “ He may be a good man, and a wise one, 
but he’s not wise enough to know the way to 
my heart, and never a man as was ! Eh, Seppy, 
I’m a Christian woman, but I’m not like other 
Christian women ; and I’m glad I’m going 
away from this stupid world. I Ve not been a 
bad woman, and I deserve credit for it, for it 
would have suited me a great deal better to be 
bad. O, what a delightful time a witch must 
have had, starting off up chimney on her broom¬ 
stick at midnight, and looking down from aloft 

233 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


in the sky on the sleeping village far below, with 
its steeple pointing up at her, so that she might 
touch the golden weathercock ! You, mean¬ 
while, in such an ecstasy, and all below you 
the dull, innocent, sober humankind: the wife 
sleeping by her husband, or mother by her 
child, squalling with wind in its stomach; the 
goodman driving up his cattle and his plough, 
— all so innocent, all so stupid, with their dull 
days just alike, one after another. And you up 
in the air, sweeping away to some nook in the 
forest! Hal What’s that? A wizard 1 Hal 
ha 1 Known below as a deacon 1 There is 
Goody Chickering 1 How quietly she sent the 
young people to bed after prayers 1 There is 
an Indian; there a nigger; they all have equal 
rights and privileges at a witch meeting. Phewl 
the wind blows cold up here 1 Why does not 
the Black Man have the meeting at his own 
kitchen hearth ? Ho 1 ho 1 O dear mel But 
I’m a Christian woman and no witch ; but those 
must have been gallant times 1 ” 

Doubtless it was a partial wandering of the 
mind that took the poor old woman away on 
this old-witch flight; and it was very curious 
and pitiful to witness the compunction with 
which she returned to herself and took herself 
to task for the preference which, in her wild 
nature, she could not help giving to harum- 
scarum wickedness over tame goodness. Now 

234 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


she tried to compose herself, and talk reason¬ 
ably and godly. 

Ah, Septimius, my dear child, never give 
way to temptation, nor consent to be a wizard, 
though the Black Man persuade you ever so 
hard. I know he will try. He has tempted 
me, but I never yielded, never gave him his 
will; and never do you, my boy, though you, 
with your dark complexion, and your brooding 
brow, and your eye veiled, only when it sud¬ 
denly looks out with a flash of fire in it, are the 
sort of man he seeks most, and that afterwards 
serves him. But don't do it, Septimius. But 
if you could be an Indian, methinks it would 
be better than this tame life we lead. 'T would 
have been better for me, at all events. O, how 
pleasant't would have been to spend my life 
wandering in the woods, smelling the pines and 
the hemlock all day, and fresh things of all 
kinds, and no kitchen work to do, — not to rake 
up the fire, nor sweep the room, nor make the 
beds, — but to sleep on fresh boughs in a wig¬ 
wam, with the leaves still on the branches that 
made the roof! And then to see the deer 
brought in by the red hunter, and the blood 
streaming from the arrow dart ! Ah ! and the 
fight too ! and the scalping 1 and, perhaps, a 
woman might creep into the battle, and steal 
the wounded enemy away of her tribe and scalp 
him, and be praised for it 1 O Seppy, how I hate 

235 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


the thought of the dull life women lead 1 A 
white woman's life is so dull ! Thank Heaven, 
I'm done with it! If I'm ever to live again, 
may I be whole Indian, please my Maker ! " 

After this goodly outburst. Aunt Keziah lay 
quietly for a few moments, and her skinny claws 
being clasped together, and her yellow visage 
grinning, as pious an aspect as was attainable by 
her harsh and pain-distorted features, Septimius 
perceived that she was in prayer. And so it 
proved by what followed, for the old woman 
turned to him with a grim tenderness on her 
face, and stretched out her hand to be taken in 
his own. He clasped the bony talon in both 
his hands. 

“ Seppy, my dear, I feel a great peace, and I 
don't think there is so very much to trouble me 
in the other world. It won't be all housework, 
and keeping decent, and doing like other people 
there. I suppose I need n't expect to ride on 
a broomstick, — that would be wrong in any 
kind of a world, — but there may be woods to 
wander in, and a pipe to smoke in the air of 
heaven ; trees to hear the wind in, and to smell 
of, and all such natural, happy things ; and by 
and by I shall hope to see you there, Seppy, my 
darling boy ! Come by and by; 't is n't worth 
your while to live forever, even if you should 
find out what's wanting in the drink I've taught 
you. I can see a little way into the next world 
236 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


now, and I see it to be far better than this heavy 
and wretched old place. You ’ll die when your 
time comes ; won’t you, Seppy, my darling ? ” 

“ Yes, dear auntie, when my time comes,” 
said Septimius. “ Very likely I shall want to 
live no longer by that time.” 

‘‘ Likely not,” said the old woman. I’m 
sure I don’t. It is like going to sleep on my 
mother’s breast to die. So good-night, dear 
Seppy ! ” 

‘‘ Good-night, and God bless you, auntie ! ” 
said Septimius, with a gush of tears blinding 
him, spite of his Indian nature. 

The old woman composed herself, and lay 
quite still and decorous for a short time ; then, 
rousing herself a little, ‘‘ Septimius,” said she, 
“ is there just a little drop of my drink left ? 
Not that I want to live any longer, but if I 
could sip ever so little, I feel as if I should step 
into the other world quite cheery, with it warm 
in my heart, and not feel shy and bashful at 
going among strangers.” 

Not one drop, auntie.” 

Ah, well, no matter ! It was not quite 
right, that last cup. It had a queer taste. 
What could you have put into it, Seppy, dar¬ 
ling ? But no matter, no matter! It’s a pre¬ 
cious stuff, if you make it right. Don’t forget 
the herbs, Septimius. Something wrong had 
certainly got into it.” 


237 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


These, except for some murmurings, some 
groanings and unintelligible whisperings, were 
the last utterances of poor Aunt Keziah, who 
did not live a great while longer, and at last 
passed away in a great sigh, like a gust of wind 
among the trees, she having just before stretched 
out her hand again and grasped that of Sep- 
timius; and he sat watching her and gazing at 
her, wondering and horrified, touched, shocked 
by death, of which he had so unusual a terror, 
— and by the death of this creature especially, 
with whom he felt a sympathy that did not exist 
with any other person now living. So long did 
he sit, holding her hand, that at last he was 
conscious that it was growing cold within his 
own, and that the stiffening fingers clutched 
him, as if they were disposed to keep their 
hold, and not forego the tie that had been so 
peculiar. 

Then rushing hastily forth, he told the near¬ 
est available neighbor, who was Robert Hag- 
burn’s mother; and she summoned some of her 
gossips, and came to the house, and took poor 
Aunt Keziah in charge. They talked of her 
with no great respect, I fear, nor much sorrow, 
nor sense that the community would suffer any 
great deprivation in her loss; for, in their view, 
she was a dram-drinking, pipe-smoking, cross- 
grained old maid, and, as some thought, a witch; 
and, at any rate, with too much of the Indian 
238 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


blood in her to be of much use; and they hoped 
that now Rose Garfield would have a pleasanter 
life, and Septimius study to be a minister, and 
all things go well, and the place be cheerfuller. 
They found Aunt Keziah’s bottle in the cup¬ 
board, and tasted and smelt of it. 

“ Good West Indjy as ever I tasted,’' said 
Mrs. Hagburn ; and there stands her broken 
pitcher, on the hearth. Ah, empty! I never 
could bring my mind to taste it; but now I'm 
sorry I never did, for I suppose nobody in the 
world can make any more of it.” 

Septimius, meanwhile, had betaken himself to 
the hilltop, which was his place of refuge on all 
occasions when the house seemed too stifled to 
contain him; and there he walked to and fro, 
with a certain kind of calmness and indiffer¬ 
ence that he wondered at; for there is hardly 
anything in this world so strange as the quiet 
surface that spreads over a man’s mind in his 
greatest emergencies : so that he deems himself 
perfectly quiet, and upbraids himself with not 
feeling anything, when indeed he is passion- 
stirred. As Septimius walked to and fro, he 
looked at the rich crimson flowers, which seemed 
to be blooming in greater profusion and luxu¬ 
riance than ever before. He had made an ex¬ 
periment with these flowers, and he was curious 
to know whether that experiment had been the 
cause of Aunt Keziah’s death. Not that he felt 

239 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


any remorse therefor, in any case, or believed 
himself to have committed a crime, having really 
intended and desired nothing but good. I sup¬ 
pose such things (and he must be a lucky phy¬ 
sician, methinks, who has no such mischief within 
his own experience) never weigh with deadly 
weight on any man's conscience. Something 
must be risked in the cause of science, and in 
desperate cases something must be risked for 
the patient's self. Septimius, much as he loved 
life, would not have hesitated to put his own life 
to the same risk that he had imposed on Aunt 
Keziah ; or, if he did hesitate, it would have been 
only because, if the experiment turned out dis¬ 
astrously in his own person, he would not be in 
a position to make another and more successful 
trial; whereas, by trying it on others, the man 
of science still reserves himself for new efforts, 
and does not put all the hopes of the world, so 
far as involved in his success, on one cast of the 
die. 

By and by he met Sibyl Dacy, who had as¬ 
cended the hill, as was usual with her, at sunset, 
and came towards him, gazing earnestly in his 
face. 

They tell me poor Aunt Keziah is no more," 
said she. 

‘‘ She is dead," said Septimius. 

The flower is a very famous medicine," said 
240 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


the girl, ‘‘ but everything depends on its being 
applied in the proper way,” 

‘‘ Do you know the way, then ? ” asked Sep- 
timius. 

“No; you should ask Doctor Portsoaken 
about that,” said Sibyl. 

Doctor Portsoaken ! And so he should con¬ 
sult him. That eminent chemist and scientific 
man had evidently heard of the recipe, and at 
all events would be acquainted with the best 
methods of getting the virtues out of flowers and 
herbs, some of which, Septimius had read enough 
to know, were poison in one phase and shape 
of preparation, and possessed of richest virtues 
in others ; their poison, as one may say, serving 
as a dark and terrible safeguard, which Provi¬ 
dence has set to watch over their preciousness; 
even as a dragon, or some wild and fiendish 
spectre, is set to watch and keep hidden gold and 
heaped-up diamonds. A dragon always waits on 
everything that is very good. And what would 
deserve the watch and ward of danger of a dragon, 
or something more fatal than a dragon, if not 
this treasure of which Septimius was in quest, 
and the discovery and possession of which would 
enable him to break down one of the strongest 
barriers of nature? It ought to be death, he 
acknowledged it, to attempt such a thing; for 
how changed would be life if he should succeed; 
241 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


how necessary it was that mankind should be 
defended from such attempts on the general rule 
on the part of all but him. How could Death 
be spared ? — then the sire would live forever, 
and the heir never come to his inheritance, and 
so he would at once hate his own father, from 
the perception that he would never be out of 
his way. Then the same class of powerful minds 
would always rule the state, and there would 
never be a change of policy. 

\_Here several pages are missing, — Ed.] 

Through such scenes Septimius sought out 
the direction that Doctor Portsoaken had given 
him, and came to the door of a house in the 
olden part of the town. The Boston of those 
days had very much the aspect of provincial 
towns in England, such as may still be seen 
there, while our own city has undergone such 
wonderful changes that little likeness to what 
our ancestors made it can now be found. The 
streets, crooked and narrow; the houses, many 
gabled, projecting, with latticed windows and 
diamond panes ; without sidewalks; with rough 
pavements. 

Septimius knocked loudly at the door, nor 
had long to wait before a serving maid appeared, 
who seemed to be of English nativity ; and in 
reply to his request for Doctor Portsoaken bade 
him come in, and led him up a staircase with 
242 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


broad landing places; then tapped at the door 
of a room, and was responded to by a gruff voice 
saying, “ Come in !'' The woman held the door 
open, and Septimius saw the veritable Doctor 
Portsoaken in an old, faded morning-gown, and 
with a nightcap on his head, his German pipe in 
his mouth, and a brandy bottle, to the best of 
our belief, on the table by his side. 

Come in, come in,” said the gruff doctor, 
nodding to Septimius. “ I remember you. 
Come in, man, and tell me your business.” 

Septimius did come in, but was so struck by 
the aspect of Doctor Portsoaken’s apartment, 
and his gown, that he did not immediately tell his 
business. In the first place, everything looked 
very dusty and dirty, so that evidently no wo¬ 
man had ever been admitted into this sanctity 
of a place ; a fact made all the more evident by 
the abundance of spiders, who had spun their 
webs about the walls and ceiling in the wildest 
apparent confusion, though doubtless each in¬ 
dividual spider knew the cordage which he had 
lengthened out of his own miraculous bowels. 
But it was really strange. They had festooned 
their cordage on whatever was stationary in the 
room, making a sort of gray, dusky tapestry, 
that waved portentously in the breeze, and 
flapped, heavy and dismal, each with its spider 
in the centre of his own system. And what was 
most marvellous was a spider over the doctor’s 
243 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


head ; a spider, I think, of some South Amer¬ 
ican breed, with a circumference of its many legs 
as big, unless I am misinformed, as a teacup, 
and with a body in the midst as large as a dol¬ 
lar ; giving the spectator horrible qualms as to 
what would be the consequence if this spider 
should be crushed, and, at the same time, sug¬ 
gesting the poisonous danger of suffering such 
a monster to live. The monster, however, sat 
in the midst of the stalwart cordage of his web, 
right over the doctor’s head ; and he looked, 
with all those complicated lines, like the symbol 
of a conjurer or crafty politician in the midst of 
the complexity of his scheme; and Septimius 
wondered if he were not the type of Doctor 
Portsoaken himself, who, fat and bloated as the 
spider, seemed to be the centre of some dark 
contrivance. And could it be that poor Septi¬ 
mius was typified by the fascinated fly, doomed 
to be entangled by the web ? 

Good-day to you,” said the gruff doctor, 
taking his pipe from his mouth. ‘‘ Here I am, 
with my brother spiders, in the midst of my 
web. I told you, you remember, the wonder¬ 
ful efficacy which I had discovered in spiders* 
webs ; and this is my laboratory, where I have 
hundreds of workmen concocting my panacea 
for me. Is it not a lovely sight ? ** 

A wonderful one, at least,** said Septimius. 
‘‘That one above your head, the monster, is 
244 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


calculated to give a very favorable idea of your 
theory. What a quantity of poison there must 
be in him ! ” 

“ Poison, do you call it ? ” quoth the grim 
doctor. “That's entirely as it may be used. 
Doubtless his bite would send a man to king¬ 
dom come ; but, on the other hand, no one 
need want a better life line than that fellow's 
web. He and I are firm friends, and I believe 
he would know my enemies by instinct. But 
come, sit down, and take a glass of brandy. 
No ? Well, I 'll drink it for you. And how 
is the old aunt yonder, with her infernal nos¬ 
trum, the bitterness and nauseousness of which 
my poor stomach has not yet forgotten ? " 

“ My Aunt Keziah is no more," said Septi- 
mius. 

“ No more ! Well, I trust in Heaven she 
has carried her secret with her," said the doc¬ 
tor. “If anything could comfort you for her 
loss, it would be that. But what brings you to 
Boston ? " 

“ Only a dried flower or two," said Septi- 
mius, producing some specimens of the strange 
growth of the grave. “ I want you to tell me 
about them." 

The naturalist took the flowers in his hand, 
one of which had the root appended, and ex¬ 
amined them with great minuteness and some 
surprise; two or three times looking in Septi- 

245 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


mius’s face with a puzzled and inquiring air ; 
then examined them again. 

“ Do you tell me/' said he, that the plant 
has been found indigenous in this country, and 
in your part of it ? And in what locality ? " 

“ Indigenous, so far as I know,” answered 
Septimius. As to the locality,” — he hesi¬ 
tated a little, — it is on a small hillock, scarcely 
bigger than a molehill, on the hilltop behind 
my house.” 

The naturalist looked steadfastly at him with 
red, burning eyes, under his deep, impending, 
shaggy brows; then again at the flower. 

“ Flower, do you call it ? ” said he, after a 
reexamination. This is no flower, though it 
so closely resembles one, and a beautiful one, 
— yes, most beautiful. But it is no flower. It 
is a certain very rare fungus, — so rare as al¬ 
most to be thought fabulous ; and there are 
the strangest superstitions, coming down from 
ancient times, as to the mode of production. 
What sort of manure had been put into that 
hillock ? Was it merely dried leaves, the refuse 
of the forest, or something else ? ” 

Septimius hesitated a little ; but there was no 
reason why he should not disclose the truth,— 
as much of it as Doctor Portsoaken cared to 
know. 

The hillock where it grew,” answered he, 
‘‘was a grave.” 


246 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

A grave ! Strange ! strange ! quoth Doc¬ 
tor Portsoaken. Now these old superstitions 
sometimes prove to have a germ of^ truth in 
them, which some philosopher has doubtless 
long ago, in forgotten ages, discovered and made 
known ; but in process of time his learned mem¬ 
ory passes away, but the truth, undiscovered, 
survives him, and the people get hold of it, and 
make it the nucleus of all sorts of folly. So it 
grew out of a grave ! Yes, yes ; and probably 
it would have grown out of any other dead 
flesh, as well as that of a human being; a dog 
would have answered the purpose as well as a 
man. You must know that the seeds of fungi 
are scattered so universally over the world that, 
only comply with the conditions, and you will 
produce them everywhere. Prepare the bed it 
loves, and a mushroom will spring up sponta¬ 
neously, an excellent food, like manna from 
heaven. So superstition says, kill your dead¬ 
liest enemy, and plant him, and he will come 
up in a delicious fungus, which I presume to 
be this ; steep him, or distil him, and he will 
make an elixir of^life for you. I suppose there 
is some foolish symbolism or other about the 
matter; but the fact I affirm to be nonsense. 
Dead flesh under some certain conditions of 
rain and sunshine, not at present ascertained by 
science, will produce the fungus, whether the 
manure be friend, or foe, or cattle.’* 

247 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


And as to its medical efficacy ? ’’ asked 
Septimius. 

‘^That may be great for aught I know/’ said 
Portsoaken; ‘‘ but I am content with my cob¬ 
webs. You may seek it out for yourself. But 
if the poor fellow lost his life in the supposition 
that he might be a useful ingredient in a recipe, 
you are rather an unscrupulous practitioner.” 

The person whose mortal relics fill that 
grave,” said Septimius, “ was no enemy of mine 
(no private enemy, I mean, though he stood 
among the enemies of my country), nor had I 
anything to gain by his death. I strove to 
avoid aiming at his life, but he compelled me.” 

“ Many a chance shot brings down the bird,” 
said Doctor Portsoaken. “You say you had 
no interest in his death. We shall see that in 
the end.” 

Septimius did not try to follow the conver¬ 
sation among the mysterious hints with which 
the doctor chose to involve it; but he now 
sought to gain some information from him as 
to the mode of preparing the recipe, and whether 
he thought it would be most efficacious as a de¬ 
coction or as a distillation. The learned chem¬ 
ist supported most decidedly the latter opinion, 
and showed Septimius how he might make for 
himself a simpler apparatus, with no better aids 
than Aunt Keziah’s teakettle, and one or two 
trifling things, which the doctor himself sup- 
248 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


plied, by which all might be done with every 
necessary scrupulousness. 

“ Let me look again at the formula/’ said he. 
“ There are a good many minute directions that 
appear trifling, but it is not safe to neglect any 
minutiae in the preparation of an affair like this ; 
because, as it is all mysterious and unknown 
ground together, we cannot tell which may be 
the important and efficacious part. For in¬ 
stance, when all else is done, the recipe is to be 
exposed seven days to the sun at noon. That 
does not look very important, but it may be. 
Then again, ‘ Steep it in moonlight during the 
second quarter.’ That’s all moonshine, one 
would think; but there’s no saying. It is 
singular, with such preciseness, that no distinct 
directions are given whether to infuse, decoct, 
distil, or what other way; but my advice is to 
distil.” 

“I will do it,” said Septimius, ‘‘and not a 
direction shall be neglected.” 

“ I shall be curious to know the result,” said 
Doctor Portsoaken, “ and am glad to see the 
zeal with which you enter into the matter. A 
very valuable medicine may be recovered to 
science through your agency, and you may make 
your fortune by it; though, for my part, I pre¬ 
fer to trust to my cobwebs. This spider, now, 
is not he a lovely object? See, he is quite ca¬ 
pable of knowledge and affection.” 

249 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


There seemed, in fact, to be some mode of 
communication between the doctor and his spi¬ 
der, for on some sign given by the former, 
imperceptible to Septimius, the many-legged 
monster let himself down by a cord, which he 
extemporized out of his own bowels, and came 
dangling his huge bulk down before his master's 
face, while the latter lavished many epithets of 
endearment upon him, ludicrous, and not with¬ 
out horror, as applied to such a hideous pro¬ 
duction of nature. 

I assure you," said Doctor Portsoaken, I 
run some risk from my intimacy with this lovely 
jewel, and if I behave not all the more prudently, 
your countrymen will hang me for a wizard, and 
annihilate this precious spider as my familiar. 
There would be a loss to the world; not small 
in my own case, but enormous in the case of 
the spider. Look at him now, and see if the 
mere uninstructed observation does not discover 
a wonderful value in him." 

In truth, when looked at closely, the spider 
really showed that a care and art had been be¬ 
stowed upon his make, not merely as regards 
curiosity, but absolute beauty, that seemed to 
indicate that he must be a rather distinguished 
creature in the view of Providence; so varie¬ 
gated was he with a thousand minute spots, 
spots of color, glorious radiance, and such a 
brilliance was attained by many conglomerated 
250 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


brilliancies ; and it was very strange that all this 
care was bestowed on a creature that, probably, 
had never been carefully considered except by 
the two pair of eyes that were now upon it, and 
that, in spite of its beauty and magnificence, 
could only be looked at with an effort to over¬ 
come the mysterious repulsiveness of its pre¬ 
sence ; for all the time that Septimius looked 
and admired, he still hated the thing, and 
thought it wrong that it was ever born, and 
wished that it could be annihilated. Whether 
the spider was conscious of the wish, we are un¬ 
able to say; but certainly Septimius felt as if 
he were hostile to him, and had a mind to sting 
him; and, in fact. Doctor Portsoaken seemed 
of the same opinion. 

“ Aha, my friend,'* said he, I would advise 
you not to come too near Orontes! He is a 
lovely beast, it is true; but in a certain recess 
of this splendid form of his he keeps a modest 
supply of a certain potent and piercing poison, 
which would produce a wonderful effect on any 
flesh to which ^he chose to apply it. A power¬ 
ful fellow is Orontes; and he has a great sense 
of his own dignity and importance, and will not 
allow it to be imposed on.*’ 

Septimius moved from the vicinity of the spi¬ 
der, who, in fact, retreated, by climbing up his 
cord, and ensconced himself in the middle of 
his web, where he remained waiting for his prey. 

251 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Septimius wondered whether the doctor were 
symbolized by the spider, and was likewise wait¬ 
ing in the middle of his web for his prey. As 
he saw no way, however, in which the doctor 
could make a profit out of himself, or how he 
could be victimized, the thought did not much 
disturb his equanimity. He was about to take 
his leave, but the doctor, in a derisive kind of 
way, bade him sit still, for he purposed keeping 
him as a guest, that night, at least. 

‘‘ I owe you a dinner,” said he, and will pay 
it with a supper and knowledge ; and before we 
part I have certain inquiries to make, of which 
you may not at first see the object, but yet are 
not quite purposeless. My familiar, up aloft 
there, has whispered me something about you, 
and I rely greatly on his intimations.” 

Septimius, who was sufficiently common-sen¬ 
sible, and invulnerable to superstitious influ¬ 
ences on every point except that to which he 
had surrendered himself, was easily prevailed 
upon to stay ; for he found the singular, char- 
latanic, mysterious lore of the man curious, and 
he had enough of real science to at least make 
him an object of interest to one who knew no¬ 
thing of the matter; and Septimius’s acuteness, 
too, was piqued in trying to make out what 
manner of man he really was, and how much in 
him was genuine science and self-belief, and how 
much quackery and pretension and conscious 
252 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


empiricism. So he stayed, and supped with the 
doctor at a table heaped more bountifully, and 
with rarer dainties, than Septimius had ever be¬ 
fore conceived of; and in his simpler cogni¬ 
zance, heretofore, of eating merely to live, he 
could not but wonder to see a man of thought 
caring to eat of more than one dish, so that 
most of the meal, on his part, was spent in see¬ 
ing the doctor feed and hearing him discourse 
upon his food. 

If man lived only to eat,” quoth the doctor, 
‘‘ one life would not suffice, not merely to ex¬ 
haust the pleasure of it, but even to get the 
rudiments of it.” 

When this important business was over, the 
doctor and his guest sat down again in his lab¬ 
oratory, where the former took care to have his 
usual companion, the black bottle, at his elbow, 
and filled his pipe, and seemed to feel a cer¬ 
tain sullen, genial, fierce, brutal, kindly mood 
enough, and looked at Septimius with a sort of 
friendship, as if he had as lief shake hands with 
him as knock him down. 

Now for a talk about business,” said he. 

Septimius thought, however, that the doc¬ 
tor’s talk began, at least, at a sufficient remote¬ 
ness from any practical business ; for he began 
to question about his remote ancestry, what he 
knew, or what record had been preserved, of 
the first emigrant from England; whence, from 

253 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


what shire or part of England, that ancestor 
had come; whether there were any memorial of 
any kind remaining of him, any letters or writ¬ 
ten documents, wills, deeds, or other legal pa¬ 
per ; in short, all about him. 

Septimius could not satisfactorily see whether 
these inquiries were made with any definite pur¬ 
pose, or from a mere general curiosity to dis¬ 
cover how a family of early settlement in 
America might still be linked with the old coun¬ 
try ; whether there were any tendrils stretching 
across the gulf of a hundred and fifty years by 
which the American branch of the family was 
separated from the trunk of the family tree in 
England. The doctor partly explained this. 

You must know,’’ said he, “ that the name 
you bear, Felton, is one formerly of much emi¬ 
nence and repute in my part of England, and, 
indeed, very recently possessed of wealth and 
station. I should like to know if you are of 
that race.” 

Septimius answered with such facts and tradi¬ 
tions as had come to his knowledge respecting 
his family history ; a sort of history that is quite 
as liable to be mythical, in its early and distant 
stages, as that of Rome, and, indeed, seldom 
goes three or four generations back without 
getting into a mist really impenetrable, though 
great, gloomy, and magnificent shapes of men 
often seem to loom in it, who, if they could be 

254 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


brought close to the naked eye, would turn out 
as commonplace as the descendants who wonder 
at and admire them. He remembered Aunt 
Keziah’s legend, and said he had reason to be¬ 
lieve that his first ancestor came over at a some¬ 
what earlier date than the first Puritan settlers, 
and dwelt among the Indians, where (and here 
the young man cast down his eyes, having the 
customary American abhorrence for any mix¬ 
ture of blood) he had intermarried with the 
daughter of a sagamore, and succeeded to his 
rule. This might have happened as early as 
the end of Elizabeth's reign, perhaps later. It 
was impossible to decide dates on such a matter. 
There had been a son of this connection, per¬ 
haps more than one, but certainly one son, who, 
on the arrival of the Puritans, was a youth, his 
father appearing to have been slain in some out¬ 
break of the tribe, perhaps owing to the jeal¬ 
ousy of prominent chiefs at seeing their natu¬ 
ral authority abrogated or absorbed by a man 
of different race. He slightly alluded to the 
supernatural attributes that gathered round this 
predecessor, but in a way to imply that he put 
no faith in them ; for Septimius's natural keen 
sense and perception kept him from betraying 
his weakness to the doctor, by the same instinc¬ 
tive and subtle caution with which a madman 
can so well conceal his infirmity. 

On the arrival of the Puritans, they had 

255 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

found among the Indians a youth partly of their 
own bloodj able, though imperfectly, to speak 
their language, — having, at least, some early 
recollections of it, — inheriting, also, a share of 
influence over the tribe on which his father had 
grafted him. It was natural that they should 
pay especial attention to this youth, consider it 
their duty to give him religious instruction in 
the faith of his fathers, and try to use him as a 
means of influencing his tribe. They did so, 
but did not succeed in swaying the tribe by his 
means, their success having been limited to 
winning the half-Indian from the wild ways of 
his mother’s people, into a certain partial but 
decent accommodation to those of the English. 
A tendency to civilization was brought out in 
his character by their rigid training; at least, 
his savage wildness was broken. He built a 
house among them, with a good deal of the 
wigwam, no doubt, in its style of architecture, 
but still a permanent house, near which he estab¬ 
lished a cornfield, a pumpkin garden, a melon 
patch, and became farmer enough to be entitled 
to ask the hand of a Puritan maiden. There 
he spent his life, with some few instances of 
temporary relapse into savage wildness, when 
he fished in the river Musquehannah, or in 
Walden, or strayed in the woods, when he 
should have been planting or hoeing ; but, on 
the whole, the race had been redeemed from 
256 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


barbarism in his person, and in the succeeding 
generations had been tamed more and more. 
The second generation had been distinguished 
in the Indian wars of the provinces, and then 
intermarried with the stock of a distinguished 
Puritan divine, by which means Septimius could 
reckon great and learned men, scholars of old 
Cambridge, among his ancestry on one side, 
while on the other it ran up to the early emi¬ 
grants, who seemed to have been remarkable 
men, and to that strange wild lineage of Indian 
chiefs, whose blood was like that of persons not 
quite human, intermixed with civilized blood. 

I wonder,*’ said the doctor musingly, 
‘‘ whether there are really no documents to as¬ 
certain the epoch at which that old first emi¬ 
grant came over, and whence he came, and pre¬ 
cisely from what English family. Often the 
last heir of some respectable name dies in Eng¬ 
land, and we say that the family is extinct; 
whereas, very possibly, it may be abundantly 
flourishing in the New World, revived by the 
rich infusion of new blood in a new soil, instead 
of growing feebler, heavier, stupider, each year 
by sticking to an old soil, intermarrying over 
and over again with the same respectable fami¬ 
lies, till it has made common stock of all their 
vices, weaknesses, madnesses. Have you no 
documents, I say, no muniment deed ? ” 

“ None,” said Septimius. 

257 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


“No old furniture, desks, trunks, chests, 
cabinets ? 

“You must remember,’’ said Septimius, “that 
my Indian ancestor was not very likely to have 
brought such things out of the forest with him. 
A wandering Indian does not carry a chest of 
papers with him. I do remember, in my child¬ 
hood, a little old iron-bound chest, or coffer, 
of which the key was lost, and which my Aunt 
Keziah used to say came down from her great- 
great-grandfather. I don’t know what has be¬ 
come of it, and my poor old aunt kept it among 
her own treasures.” 

“Well, my friend, do you hunt up that old 
coffer, and, just as a matter of curiosity, let me 
see the contents.” 

“ I have other things to do,” said Septimius. 

“ Perhaps so,” quoth the doctor, “ but no 
other, as it may turn out, of quite so much im¬ 
portance as this. I ’ll tell you fairly : the heir 
of a great English house is lately dead, and the 
estate lies open to any well-sustained, perhaps 
to any plausible, claimant. If it should appear 
from the records of that family, as I have 
some reason to suppose, that a member of it, 
who would now represent the older branch, dis¬ 
appeared mysteriously and unaccountably, at a 
date corresponding with what might be ascer¬ 
tained as that of your ancestor’s first appearance 
in this country; if any reasonable proof can be 
258 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


brought forward, on the part of the representa¬ 
tives of that white sagamore, that wizard pow¬ 
wow, or however you call him, that he was the 
disappearing Englishman, why, a good case is 
made out. Do you feel no interest in such a 
prospect ? ” 

Very little, I confess,’' said Septimius. 

‘^Very little!” said the grim doctor impa¬ 
tiently. “ Do not you see that, if you make good 
your claim, you establish for yourself a position 
among the English aristocracy, and succeed to 
a noble English estate, an ancient hall, where 
your forefathers have dwelt since the Conqueror; 
splendid gardens, hereditary woods and parks, 
to which anything America can show is despica¬ 
ble, — all thoroughly cultivated and adorned, 
with the care and ingenuity of centuries ; and an 
income, a month of which would be greater 
wealth than any of your American ancestors, rak¬ 
ing and scraping for his lifetime, has ever got 
together, as the accumulated result of the toil 
and penury by which he has sacrificed body and 
soul?” 

That strain of Indian blood is in me yet,” 
said Septimius, ‘‘and it makes me despise, — no, 
not despise ; for I can see their desirableness for 
other people, — but it makes me reject for my¬ 
self what you think so valuable. I do not care 
for these common aims. I have ambition, but 
it is for prizes such as other men cannot gain, 
259 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and do not think of aspiring after. I could not 
live in the habits of English life, as I conceive 
it to be, and would not, for my part, be bur¬ 
dened with the great estate you speak of. It 
might answer my purpose for a time. It would 
suit me well enough to try that mode of life, as 
well as a hundred others, but only for a time. 
It is of no permanent importance.’* 

‘‘ I ’ll tell you what it is, young man,” said 
the doctor testily, you have something in your 
brain that makes you talk very foolishly ; and 
I have partly a suspicion what it is, — only I 
can’t think that a fellow who is really gifted with 
respectable sense in other directions should be 
such a confounded idiot in this.” 

Septimius blushed, but held his peace, and the 
conversation languished after this; the doctor 
grimly smoking his pipe, and by no means in¬ 
creasing the milkiness of his mood by frequent 
applications to the black bottle, until Septimius 
intimated that he would like to go to bed. The 
old woman was summoned, and ushered him to 
his chamber. 

At breakfast, the doctor partially renewed the 
subject which he seemed to consider most im¬ 
portant in yesterday’s conversation. 

‘‘ My young friend,” said he, “ I advise you 
to look in cellar and garret, or wherever you 
consider the most likely place, for that iron- 
bound coffer. There may be nothing in it; it 
260 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


may be full of musty love letters, or old ser¬ 
mons, or receipted bills of a hundred years ago ; 
but it may contain what will be worth to you an 
estate of five thousand pounds a year. It is a 
pity the old woman with the damnable decoction 
is gone off. Look it up, I say.*' 

“Well, well,” said Septimius abstractedly, 
“ when I can find time.” 

So saying, he took his leave, and retraced his 
way back to his home. He had not seemed like 
himself during the time that elapsed since he left 
it, and it appeared an infinite space that he had 
lived through and travelled over, and he fancied 
it hardly possible that he could ever get back 
again. But now, with every step that he took, 
he found himself getting miserably back into 
the old enchanted land. The mist rose up about 
him, the pale mist bow of ghostly promise 
curved before him ; and he trod back again, poor 
boy, out of the clime of real effort, into the land 
of his dreams and shadowy enterprise. 

“ How was it,” said he, “ that 1 can have been 
so untrue to my convictions ? Whence came 
that dark and dull despair that weighed upon 
me ? Why did I let the "^nocking mood which 
I was conscious of in that brutal, brandy-burnt 
sceptic have such an influence on me? Let him 
guzzle! He shall not tempt me from my pur¬ 
suit, with his lure of an estate and name among 
those heavy English beef-eaters of whom he is 
261 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


a brother. My destiny is one which kings might 
envy, and strive in vain to buy with principali¬ 
ties and kingdoms.” 

So he trod on air almost, in the latter parts 
of his journey, and instead of being wearied, 
grew more airy with the latter miles that brought 
him to his wayside home. 

So now Septimius sat down and began in ear¬ 
nest his endeavors and experiments to prepare 
the medicine, according to the mysterious terms 
of the recipe. It seemed not possible to do it, so 
many rebuffs and disappointments did he meet 
with. No effort would produce a combination 
answering to the description of the recipe, which 
propounded a brilliant, gold-colored liquid, clear 
as the air itself, with a certain fragrance which 
was peculiar to it, and also, what was the more 
individual test of the correctness of the mixture, 
a certain coldness of the feeling, a chillness which 
was described as peculiarly refreshing and in¬ 
vigorating. With all his trials, he produced 
nothing but turbid results, clouded generally, or 
lacking something in color, and never that fra¬ 
grance, and never that coldness which was to be 
the test of truth. He studied all the books of 
chemistry which at that period were attainable, 
— a period when, in the world, it was a science 
far unlike what it has since become; and when 
Septimius had no instruction in this country, 
nor could obtain any beyond the dark, mysteri- 
262 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

ous charlatanic communications of Doctor Port- 
soaken. So that, in fact, he seemed to be dis¬ 
covering for himself the science through which 
he was to work. He seemed to do everything 
that was stated in the recipe, and yet no results 
came from it; the liquid that he produced was 
nauseous to the smell, — to taste it he had a hor¬ 
rible repugnance, turbid, nasty, reminding him 
in most respects of poor Aunt Keziah’s elixir; 
and it was a body without a soul, and that body 
dead. And so it went on ; and the poor, half- 
maddened Septimius began to think that his im¬ 
mortal life was preserved by the mere effort of 
seeking for it, but was to be spent in the quest, 
and was therefore to be made an eternity of 
abortive misery. He pored over the document 
that had so possessed him, turning its crabbed 
meanings every way, trying to get out of it some 
new light, often tempted to fling it into the Are 
which he kept under his retort, and let the whole 
thing go ; but then again, soon rising out of that 
black depth of despair, into a determination to 
do what he had so long striven for. With such 
intense action of mind as he brought to bear on 
this paper, it is wonderful that it was not spirit¬ 
ually distilled ; that its essence did not arise, 
purified from all alloy of falsehood, from all tur¬ 
bidness of obscurity and ambiguity, and form a 
pure essence of truth and invigorating motive, 
if of any it were capable. In this interval, Sep- 
263 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


timius is said by tradition to have found out 
many wonderful secrets that were almost beyond 
the scope of science. It was said that old Aunt 
Keziah used to come with a coal of fire from un¬ 
known furnaces, to light his distilling apparatus; 
it was said, too, that the ghost of the old lord, 
whose ingenuity had propounded this puzzle for 
his descendants, used to come at midnight and 
strive to explain to him this manuscript; that 
the Black Man, too, met him on the hilltop, and 
promised him an immediate release from his dif¬ 
ficulties, provided he would kneel down and wor¬ 
ship him, and sign his name in his book, an old, 
iron-clasped, much-worn volume, which he pro¬ 
duced from his ample pockets, and showed him 
in it the names of many a man whose name has 
become historic, and above whose ashes kept 
watch an inscription testifying to his virtues and 
devotion, — old autographs, — for the Black 
Man was the original autograph collector. 

But these, no doubt, were foolish stories, con¬ 
ceived and propagated in chimney corners, while 
yet there were chimney corners and firesides, and 
smoky flues. There was no truth in such things, 
I am sure ; the Black Man had changed his tac¬ 
tics, and knew better than to lure the human 
soul thus to come to him with his musty auto¬ 
graph book. So Septimius fought with his diffi¬ 
culty by himself, as many a beginner in science 
has done before him ; and to his efforts in this 
264 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


way are popularly attributed many herb drinks, 
and some kinds of spruce beer, and nostrums 
used for rheumatism, sore throat, and typhus 
fever; but I rather think they all came from 
Aunt Keziah ; or perhaps, like jokes to Joe 
Miller, all sorts of quack medicines, flocking at 
large through the community,, are assigned to 
him or her. The people have a little mistaken 
the character and purpose of poor Septimius, 
and remember him as a quack doctor, instead 
of a seeker for a secret, not the less sublime and 
elevating because it happened to be unattain¬ 
able. 

I know not through what medium or by what 
means, but it got noised abroad that Septimius 
was engaged in some mysterious work; and, in¬ 
deed, his seclusion, his absorption, his indiffer¬ 
ence to all that was going on in that weary time 
of war, looked strange enough to indicate that 
it must be .some most important business that 
engrossed him. On the few occasions when he 
came out from his immediate haunts into the 
village, he had a strange, owl-like appearance, 
uncombed, unbrushed, his hair long and tangled; 
his face, they said, darkened with smoke ; his 
cheeks pale; the indentation of his brow deeper 
than ever before ; an earnest, haggard, sulking 
look ; and so he went hastily along the village 
street, feeling as if all eyes might find out what 
he had in his mind from his appearance ; taking 
265 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

byways where they were to be found, going 
long distances through woods and fields, rather 
than short ones where the way lay through the 
frequented haunts of men. For he shunned the 
glances of his fellow men, probably because he 
had learnt to consider them not as fellows, be¬ 
cause he was seeking to withdraw himself from 
the common bond and destiny, — because he 
felt, too, that on that account his fellow men 
would consider him as a traitor, an enemy, one 
who had deserted their cause, and tried to with¬ 
draw his feeble shoulder from under that great 
burden of death which is imposed on all men 
to bear, and which, if one could escape, each 
other would feel his load proportionably heavier. 
With these beings of a moment he had no longer 
any common cause ; they must go their separate 
ways, yet apparently the same, — they on the 
broad, dusty, beaten path, that seemed always 
full, but from which continually they so strangely 
vanished into invisibility, no one knowing, nor 
long inquiring, what had become of them ; he 
on his lonely path, where he should tread se¬ 
cure, with no trouble but the loneliness, which 
would be none to him. For a little while he 
would seem to keep them company, but soon 
they would all drop away, the minister, his ac¬ 
customed townspeople, Robert Hagburn, Rose, 
Sibyl Dacy, — all leaving him in blessed un- 
266 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


knownness to adopt new temporary relations, 
and take a new course. 

Sometimes, however, the prospect a little 
chilled him. Could he give them all up, — the 
sweet sister ; the friend of his childhood ; the 
grave instructor of his youth ; the homely, life- 
known faces ? Yes ; there were such rich pos¬ 
sibilities in the future : for he would seek out 
the noblest minds, the deepest hearts in every 
age, and be the friend of human time. Only it 
might be sweet to have one unchangeable com¬ 
panion ; for, unless he strung the pearls and 
diamonds of life upon one unbroken affection, 
he sometimes thought that his life would have 
nothing to give it unity and identity; and so 
the longest life would be but an aggregate of in¬ 
sulated fragments, which would have no relation 
to one another. And so it would not be one life, 
but many unconnected ones. Unless he could 
look into the same eyes, through the mornings 
of future time, opening and blessing him with 
the fresh gleam of love and joy; unless the same 
sweet voice could melt his thoughts together; 
unless some sympathy of a life side by side with 
his could knit them into one; looking back 
upon the same things, looking forward to the 
same ; the long, thin thread of an individual 
life, stretching onward and onward, would cease 
to be visible, cease to be felt, cease, by and by, 
267 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


to have any real bigness in proportion to its 
length, and so be virtually non-existent, except 
in the mere inconsiderable Now. I f a group of 
chosen friends, chosen out of all the world for 
their adaptedness, could go on in endless life 
together, keeping themselves mutually warm on 
the high, desolate way, then none of them need 
ever sigh to be comforted in the pitiable snug¬ 
ness of the grave. If one especial soul might 
be his companion, then how complete the fence 
of mutual arms, the warmth of close-pressing 
breast to breast! Might there be one ! O Sibyl 
Dacy ! 

Perhaps it could not be. Who but himself 
could undergo that great trial, and hardship, and 
self-denial, and firm purpose, never wavering, 
never sinking for a moment, keeping his grasp 
on life like one who holds up by main force a 
sinking and drowning friend ? — how could a 
woman do it! He must then give up the 
thought. There was a choice, — friendship, and 
the love of woman, — the long life of immor¬ 
tality. There was something heroic and enno¬ 
bling in choosing the latter. And so he walked 
with the mysterious girl on the hilltop, and sat 
down beside her on the grave, which still ceased 
not to redden, portentously beautiful, with that 
unnatural flower, — and they talked together ; 
and Septimius looked on her weird beauty, and 
often said to himself, This, too, will pass away; 

268 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


she is not capable of what I am ; she is a wo¬ 
man. It must be a manly and courageous and 
forcible spirit, vastly rich in all three particulars, 
that has strength enough to live! Ah, is it surely 
so ? There is such a dark sympathy between 
us, she knows me so well, she touches my in¬ 
most so at unawares, that I could almost think 
I had a companion here. Perhaps not so soon. 
At the end of centuries I might wed one ; not 
now.’’ 

But once he said to Sibyl Dacy, “Ah, how 
sweet it would be — sweet for me, at least — if 
this intercourse might last forever! ” 

“ That is an awful idea that you present,” 
said Sibyl, with a hardly perceptible, involuntary 
shudder : “ always on this hilltop, always pass¬ 
ing and repassing this little hillock; always 
smelling these flowers ! I always looking at this 
deep chasm in your brow; you always seeing 
my bloodless cheek! — doing this till these trees 
crumble away, till perhaps a new forest grew 
up wherever this white race had planted, and a 
race of savages again possess the soil. I should 
not like it. My mission here is but for a short 
time, and will soon be accomplished, and then 

I go.” 

“ You do not rightly estimate the way in which 
the long time might be spent,” said Septimius. 
“We would find out a thousand uses of this 
world, uses and enjoyments which now men 
269 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


never dream of, because the world is just held 
to their mouths, and then snatched away again, 
before they have time hardly to taste it, instead 
of becoming acquainted with the deliciousness 
of this great world-fruit. But you speak of a 
mission, and as if you were now in performance 
of it. Will you not tell me what it is ? 

“ No,” said Sibyl Dacy, smiling on him. 

But one day you shall know what it is, — none 
sooner nor better than you, — so much I pro¬ 
mise you.” 

“ Are we friends ? ” asked Septimius, some¬ 
what puzzled by her look. 

“We have an intimate relation to one an¬ 
other,” replied Sibyl. 

“ And what is it ? ” demanded Septimius. 

“ That will appear hereafter,” answered Sibyl, 
again smiling on him. 

He knew not what to make of this, nor 
whether to be exalted or depressed ; but, at all 
events, there seemed to be an accordance, a strik- 
ing together, a mutual touch of their two natures, 
as if, somehow or other, they were performing 
the same part of solemn music ; so that he felt 
his soul thrill, and at the same time shudder. 
Some sort of sympathy there surely was, but of 
what nature he could not tell; though often he 
was impelled to ask himself the same question 
he asked Sibyl, “ Are we friends ? ” because of 
a sudden shock and repulsion that came between 
270 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

them, and passed away in a moment; and there 
would be Sibyl, smiling askance on him. 

And then he toiled away again at his chemical 
pursuits; tried to mingle things harmoniously 
that apparently were not born to be mingled; 
discovering a science for himself, and mixing it 
up with absurdities that other chemists had long 
ago flung aside ; but still there would be that 
turbid aspect, still that lack of fragrance, still 
that want of the peculiar temperature, that was 
announced as the test of the matter. Over and 
over again he set the crystal vase in the sun, and 
let it stay there the appointed time, hoping that 
it would digest in such a manner as to bring 
about the desired result. 

One day, as it happened, his eyes fell upon 
the silver key which he had taken from the 
breast of the dead young man, and he thought 
within himself that this might have something to 
do with the seemingly unattainable success of his 
pursuit. He remembered, for the first time, the 
grim doctor's emphatic injunction to search for 
the little iron-bound box of which he had spoken, 
and which had come down with such legends 
attached to it; as, for instance, that it held the 
Devil's bond with his great-great-grandfather, 
now cancelled by the surrender of the latter's 
soul; that it held the golden key of Paradise; 
that it was full of old gold, or of the dry leaves 
of a hundred years ago; that it had a familiar 
271 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


fiend in it, who would be exorcised by the turn¬ 
ing of the lock, but would otherwise remain a 
prisoner till the solid oak of the box mouldered, 
or the iron rusted away; so that between fear 
and the loss of the key, this curious old box 
had remained unopened, till itself was lost. 

But now Septimius, putting together what 
Aunt Keziah had said in her dying moments, 
and what Doctor Portsoaken had insisted upon, 
suddenly came to the conclusion that the pos¬ 
session of the old iron box might be of the great¬ 
est importance to him. So he set himself at 
once to think where he had last seen it. Aunt 
Keziah, of course, had put it away in some safe 
place or other, either in cellar or garret, no 
doubt; so Septimius, in the intervals of his other 
occupations, devoted several days to the search ; 
and not to weary the reader with the particulars 
of the quest for an old box, suffice it to say that 
he at last found it, amongst various other antique 
rubbish, in a corner of the garret. 

It was a very rusty old thing, not more than 
a foot in length, and half as much in height and 
breadth; but most ponderously iron-bound, with 
bars, and corners, and all sorts of fortification ; 
looking very much like an ancient almsbox, 
such as are to be seen in the older rural churches 
of England, and which seem to intimate great 
distrust of those to whom the funds are com¬ 
mitted. Indeed, there might be a shrewd sus- 
272 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


picion that some ancient church beadle among 
Septimius's forefathers, when emigrating from 
England, had taken the opportunity of bringing 
the poorbox along with him. On looking close, 
too, there were rude embellishments on the lid 
and sides of the box in long-rusted steel, designs 
such as the Middle Ages were rich in ; a repre¬ 
sentation of Adam and Eve, or of Satan and a 
soul, nobody could tell which ; but, at any rate, 
an illustration of great value and interest. Sep- 
timius looked at this ugly, rusty, ponderous old 
box, so worn and battered with time, and recol¬ 
lected with a scornful smile the legends of which 
it was the object; all of which he despised and 
discredited, just as much as he did that story in 
the Arabian Nights, where a demon comes out 
of a copper vase, in a cloud of smoke that covers 
the seashore; for he was singularly invulnera¬ 
ble to all modes of superstition, all nonsense, 
except his own. But that one mode was ever in 
full force and operation with him. He felt 
strongly convinced that inside the old box was 
something that appertained to his destiny; the 
key that he had taken from the dead man's 
breast, had that come down through time, and 
across the sea, and had a man died to bring and 
deliver it to him, merely for nothing ^ It could 
not be. 

He looked at the old, rusty, elaborated lock 
of the little receptacle. It was much flourished 

273 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


about with what was once polished steel; and 
certainly, when thus polished, and the steel 
bright with which it was hooped, defended, and 
inlaid, it must have been a thing fit to appear in 
any cabinet; though now the oak was worm- 
eaten as an old coffin, and the rust of the iron 
came off red on Septimius’s fingers, after he had 
been fumbling at it. He looked at the curious 
old silver key, too, and fancied that he discov- 
ered in its elaborate handle some likeness to the 
ornaments about the box; at any rate, this he 
determined was the key of fate, and he was just 
applying it to the lock when somebody tapped 
familiarly at the door, having opened the outer 
one, and stepped in with a manly stride. Sep- 
timius, inwardly blaspheming, as secluded men 
are apt to do when any interruption comes, and 
especially when it comes at some critical moment 
of projection, left the box as yet unbroached, 
and said, ‘‘ Come in.” 

The door opened, and Robert Hagburn en¬ 
tered ; looking so tall and stately, that Septi- 
mius hardly knew him for the youth with whom 
he had grown up familiarly. He had on the 
Revolutionary dress of buff and blue, with de¬ 
corations that to the initiated eye denoted him 
an officer ; and certainly there was a kind of 
authority in his look and manner, indicating 
that heavy responsibilities, critical moments, had 
274 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


educated him, and turned the ploughboy into a 
man. 

‘‘ Is it you ? ” exclaimed Septimius. “ I 
scarcely knew you. How war has altered you ! ” 

“ And I may say, Is it you ? for you are 
much altered likewise, my old friend. Study 
wears upon you terribly. You will be an old 
man, at this rate, before you know you are a 
young one. You will kill yourself, as sure as 
a gun ! 

‘‘ Do you think so ? ” said Septimius, rather 
startled, for the queer absurdity of the position 
struck him, if he should so exhaust and wear 
himself as to die, just at the moment when he 
should have found out the secret of everlasting 
life. But though I look pale, I am very vig¬ 
orous. Judging from that scar, slanting down 
from your temple, you have been nearer death 
than you now think me, though in another 
way.’’ 

“ Yes,” said Robert Hagburn ; ‘‘ but in hot 
blood, and for a good cause, who cares for 
death ? And yet I love life ; none better, while 
it lasts, and I love it in all its looks and turns 
and surprises, — there is so much to be got out 
of it, in spite of all that people say. Youth is 
sweet, with its fiery enterprise, and I suppose 
mature manhood will be just as much so, though 
in a calmer way, and age, quieter still, will have 
275 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


its own merits, — the thing is only to do with 
life what we ought, and what is suited to each 
of its stages ; do all, enjoy all, — and I suppose 
these two rules amount to the same thing. 
Only catch real earnest hold of life, not play 
with it, and not defer one part of it for the 
sake of another, then each part of life will do 
for us what was intended. People talk of the 
hardships of military service, of the miseries 
that we undergo fighting for our country. I 
have undergone my share, I believe, — hard 
toil in the wilderness, hunger, extreme weari¬ 
ness, pinching cold, the torture of a wound, 
peril of death ; and really I have been as happy 
through it as ever I was at my mother’s cosy 
fireside of a winter’s evening. If I had died, I 
doubt not my last moments would have been 
happy. There is no use of life, but just to find 
out what is fit for us to do ; and, doing it, it 
seems to be little matter whether we live or die 
in it. God does not want our work, but only 
our willingness to work; at least, the last seems 
to answer all his purposes.” 

This is a comfortable philosophy of yours,” 
said Septimius rather contemptuously, and yet 
enviously. “Where did you get it, Robert ?” 

“Where? Nowhere ; it came to me on the 
march ; and though I can’t say that I thought 
it when the bullets pattered into the snow 
about me, in those narrow streets of Quebec, 
276 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


yet, I suppose, it was in my mind then ; for, 
as I tell you, I was very cheerful and con¬ 
tented. And you, Septimius ? I never saw 
such a discontented, unhappy-looking fellow as 
you are. You have had a harder time in peace 
than I in war. You have not found what you 
seek, whatever that may be. Take my advice. 
Give yourself to the next work that comes to 
hand. The war offers place to all of us; we 
ought to be thankful, — the most joyous of all 
the generations before or after us, — since Provi¬ 
dence gives us such good work to live for, or such 
a good opportunity to die. It is worth living 
for, just to have the chance to die so well as a 
man may in these days. Come, be a soldier. 
Be a chaplain, since your education lies that 
way ; and you will find that nobody in peace 
prays so well as we do, we soldiers ; and you 
shall not be debarred from fighting, too ; if 
war is holy work, a priest may lawfully do it, 
as well as pray for it. Come with us, my old 
friend Septimius, be my comrade, and, whether 
you live or die, you will thank me for getting 
you out of the yellow forlornness in which you 
go on, neither living nor dying.” 

Septimius looked at Robert Hagburn in sur¬ 
prise ; so much was he altered and improved 
by this brief experience of war, adventure, re¬ 
sponsibility, which he had passed through. Not 
less than the effect produced on his loutish, rus- 
277 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


tic air and deportment, developing his figure, 
seeming to make him taller, setting free the 
manly graces that lurked within his awkward 
frame, — not less was the effect on his mind 
and moral nature, giving freedom of ideas, sim¬ 
ple perception of great thoughts, a free natural 
chivalry ; so that the knight, the Homeric war¬ 
rior, the hero, seemed to be here, or possible 
to be here, in the young New England rustic; 
and all that history has given, and hearts 
throbbed and sighed and gloried over, of patri¬ 
otism and heroic feeling and action, might be 
repeated, perhaps, in the life and death of this 
familiar friend and playmate of his, whom he 
had valued not overhighly, — Robert Hagburn. 
He had merely followed out his natural heart, 
boldly and singly, — doing the first good thing 
that came to hand, — and here was a hero. 

^‘You almost make me envy you, Robert,’' 
said he, sighing. 

‘‘Then why not come with me?” asked 
Robert. 

“ Because I have another destiny,” said Sep- 
timius. 

“Well, you are mistaken; be sure of that,” 
said Robert. “This is not a generation for 
study, and the making of books; that may 
come by and by. This great fight has need of 
all men to carry it on, in one way or another; 
and no man will do well, even for himself, who 
278 


SEPTIMIUS fTETON 


tries to avoid his share in it. But I have said 
my say. And now, Septimius, the war takes 
much of a man, but it does not take him all, 
and what it leaves is all the more full of life 
and health thereby. I have something to say 
to you about this.'' 

“ Say it, then, Robert," said Septimius, who, 
having got over the first excitement of the in¬ 
terview, and the sort of exhilaration produced 
by the healthful glow of Robert's spirit, began 
secretly to wish that it might close, and to be 
permitted to return to his solitary thoughts 
again. What can I do for you ?" 

Why, nothing," said Robert, looking rather 
confused, “ since all is settled. The fact is, my 
old friend, as perhaps you have seen, I have 
very long had an eye upon your sister Rose ; 
yes, from the time we went together to the old 
schoolhouse, where she now teaches children 
like what we were then. The war took me 
away, and in good time, for I doubt if Rose 
would ever have cared enough for me to be my 
wife, if I had stayed at home, a country lout, 
as I was getting to be, in shirt sleeves and bare 
feet. But now, you see, J have come back, and 
this whole great war, to her woman's heart, is 
represented in me, and makes me heroic, so to 
speak, and strange, and yet her old familiar 
lover. So I found her heart tenderer for me 
than it was ; and, in short. Rose has consented 
279 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


to be my wife, and we mean to be married in a 
week ; my furlough permits little delay/’ 

“You surprise me,” said Septimius, who, im¬ 
mersed in his own pursuits, had taken no notice 
of the growing affection between Robert and his 
sister. “ Do you think it well to snatch this 
little lull that is allowed you in the wild striv¬ 
ing of war to try to make a peaceful home ? 
Shall you like to be summoned from it soon ? 
Shall you be as cheerful among dangers after¬ 
wards, when one sword may cut down two hap¬ 
pinesses ? ” 

“ There is something in what you say, and I 
have thought of it,” said Robert, sighing. “ But 
I can’t tell how it is ; but there is something in 
this uncertainty, this peril, this cloud before us, 
that makes it sweeter to love and to be loved 
than amid all seeming quiet and serenity. 
Really, I think, if there were to be no death, 
the beauty of life would be all tame. So we 
take our chance, or our dispensation of Provi¬ 
dence, and are going to love, and to be married, 
just as confidently as if we were sure of living 
forever.” 

“ Well, old fellow,” said Septimius, with more 
cordiality and outgush of heart than he had felt 
for a long while, “there is no man whom I 
should be happier to call brother. Take Rose, 
and all happiness along with her. She is a good 
girl, and not in the least like me. May you 
280 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


live out your threescore years and ten, and 
every one of them be happy/' 

Little more passed, and Robert Hagburn 
took his leave with a hearty shake of Septi- 
mius's hand, too conscious of his own happiness 
to be quite sensible how much the latter was 
self-involved, strange, anxious, separated from 
healthy life and interests ; and Septimius, as 
soon as Robert had disappeared, locked the door 
behind him, and proceeded at once to apply 
the silver key to the lock of the old strong box. 

The lock resisted somewhat, being rusty, as 
might well be supposed after so many years since 
it was opened ; but it finally allowed the key to 
turn, and Septimius, with a good deal of flutter 
at his heart, opened the lid. The interior had 
a very different aspect from that of the exterior; 
for, whereas the latter looked so old, this, hav¬ 
ing been kept from the air, looked about as new 
as when shut up from light and air two centuries 
ago, less or more. It was lined with ivory, 
beautifully carved in figures, according to the 
art which the mediaeval people possessed in great 
perfection ; and probably the box had been a 
lady's jewel casket formerly, and had glowed 
with rich lustre and bright colors at former 
openings. But now there was nothing in it of 
that kind, — nothing in keeping with those fig¬ 
ures carved in the ivory representing some 
mythical subjects, — nothing but some papers 
281 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


in the bottom of the box written over in an 
ancient hand, which Septimius at once fancied 
that he recognized as that of the manuscript 
and recipe which he had found on the breast of 
the young soldier. He eagerly seized them, but 
was infinitely disappointed to find that they did 
not seem to refer at all to the subjects treated 
by the former, but related to pedigrees and 
genealogies, and were in reference to an Eng¬ 
lish family and some member of it who, two 
centuries before, had crossed the sea to America, 
and who, in this way, had sought to preserve 
his connection with his native stock, so as to 
be able, perhaps, to prove it for himself or his 
descendants; and there v/as reference to docu¬ 
ments and records in England in confirmation 
of the genealogy. Septimius saw that this paper 
had been drawn up by an ancestor of his own, 
the unfortunate man who had been hanged for 
witchcraft; but so earnest had been his expecta¬ 
tion of something different, that he flung the 
old papers down with bitter indifference. 

Then again he snatched them up, and con¬ 
temptuously read them, — those proofs of de¬ 
scent through generations of esquires and 
knights, who had been renowned in war ; and 
there seemed, too, to be running through the 
family a certain tendency to letters, for three 
were designated as of the colleges of Oxford or 
Cambridge ; and against one there was the note, 
282 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


he that sold himself to Sathan ; ” and another 
seemed to have been a follower of Wickliffe ; 
and they had murdered kings, and been be¬ 
headed, and banished, and what not; so that 
the age-long life of this ancient family had not 
been after all a happy or very prosperous one, 
though they had kept their estate, in one or 
another descendant, since the Conquest. It was 
not wholly without interest that Septimius saw 
that this ancient descent, this connection with 
noble families, and intermarriages with names, 
some of which he recognized as known in Eng¬ 
lish history, all referred to his own family, and 
seemed to centre in himself, the last of a poverty- 
stricken line, which had dwindled down into 
obscurity, and into rustic labor and humble toil, 
reviving in him a little; yet how little, unless 
he fulfilled his strange purpose. Was it not 
better worth his while to take this English posi¬ 
tion here so strangely offered him ? He had 
apparently slain unwittingly the only person 
who could have contested his rights,—the 
young man who had so strangely brought him 
the hope of unlimited life at the same time that 
he was making room for him among his fore¬ 
fathers. What a change in his lot would have 
been here, for there seemed to be some preten¬ 
sions to a title, too, from a barony which was 
floating about and occasionally moving out of 
abeyancy ! 


283 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


‘‘ Perhaps/* said Septimius to himself, “ I 
may hereafter think it worth while to assert my 
claim to these possessions, to this position amid 
an ancient aristocracy, and try that mode of life 
for one generation. Yet there is something in 
my destiny incompatible, of course, with the 
continued possession of an estate. I must be, 
of necessity, a wanderer on the face of the earth, 
changing place at short intervals, disappearing 
suddenly and entirely; else the foolish, short¬ 
lived multitude and mob of mortals will be en¬ 
raged with one who seems their brother, yet 
whose countenance will never be furrowed with 
his age, nor his knees totter, nor his force be 
abated ; their little brevity will be rebuked by 
his age-long endurance, above whom the oaken 
rooftree of a thousand years would crumble, 
while still he would be hale and strong. So 
that this house, or any other, would be but a 
resting place of a day, and then I must away 
into another obscurity.** 

With almost a regret, he continued to look 
over the documents until he reached one of the 
persons recorded in the line of pedigree, — a 
worthy, apparently, of the reign of Elizabeth, 
to whom was attributed a title of Doctor in 
Utriusque Juris; and against his name was a 
verse of Latin written, for what purpose Septi¬ 
mius knew not, for, on reading it, it appeared to 
have no discoverable appropriateness ; but sud- 
284 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


denly he remembered the blotted and imperfect 
hieroglyphical passage in the recipe. He thought 
an instant, and was convinced this was the full 
expression and outwriting of that crabbed little 
mystery ; and that here was part of that secret 
writing for which the Age of Elizabeth was so 
famous and so dexterous. His mind had a flash 
of light upon it, and from that moment he was 
enabled to read not only the recipe but the 
rules, and all the rest of that mysterious docu¬ 
ment, in a way which he had never thought of 
before ; to discern that it was not to be taken 
literally and simply, but had a hidden process 
involved in it that made the whole thing infi¬ 
nitely deeper than he had hitherto deemed it to 
be. H is brain reeled, he seemed to have taken 
a draught of some liquor that opened infinite 
depths before him, he could scarcely refrain 
from giving a shout of triumphant exultation, 
the house could not contain him, he rushed up 
to his hilltop, and there, after walking swiftly 
to and fro, at length flung himself on the little 
hillock, and burst forth, as if addressing him 
who slept beneath. 

O brother, O friend ! ” said he, “ I thank 
thee for thy matchless beneficence to me ; for 
all which I rewarded thee with this little spot 
on my hilltop. Thou wast very good, very 
kind. It would not have been well for thee, a 
youth of fiery joys and passions, loving to laugh, 
285 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


loving the lightness and sparkling brilliancy of 
life, to take this boon to thyself; for, O brother ! 
I see, I see, it requires a strong spirit, capable 
of much lonely endurance, able to be sufficient 
to itself, loving not too much, dependent on 
no sweet ties of affection, to be capable of the 
mighty trial which now devolves on me. I 
thank thee, O kinsman ! Yet thou, I feel, hast 
the better part, who didst so soon lie down to 
rest, who hast done forever with this trouble¬ 
some world, which it is mine to contemplate 
from age to age, and to sum up the meaning of 
it. Thou art disporting thyself in other spheres. 
I enjoy the high, severe, fearful office of living 
here, and of being the minister of Providence 
from one age to many successive ones.’* 

In this manner he raved, as never before, in 
a strain of exalted enthusiasm, securely treading 
on air, and sometimes stopping to shout aloud, 
and feeling as if he should burst if he did not 
do so ; and his voice came back to him again 
from the low hills on the other side of the 
broad, level valley, and out of the woods afar, 
mocking him; or as if it were airy spirits, that 
knew how it was all to be, confirming his cry, 
saying, It shall be so,” “ Thou hast found it at 
last,” ‘‘Thou art immortal.” And it seemed as 
if Nature were inclined to celebrate his triumph 
over herself; for, above the woods that crowned 
the hill to the northward, there were shoots and 
286 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

streams of radiance, a white, a red, a many-col¬ 
ored lustre, blazing up high towards the zenith, 
dancing up, flitting down, dancing up again; so 
that it seemed as if spirits were keeping a revel 
there. The leaves of the trees on the hillside, 
all except the evergreens, had now mostly fallen 
with the autumn ; so that Septimius was seen by 
the few passers-by, in the decline of the after¬ 
noon, passing to and fro along his path, wildly 
gesticulating, and heard to shout so that the 
echoes came from all directions to answer him. 
After nightfall, too, in the harvest moonlight, a 
shadow was still seen passing there, waving its 
arms in shadowy triumph ; so, the next day, 
there were various goodly stories afloat and astir, 
coming out of successive mouths, more won¬ 
drous at each birth; the simplest form of the 
story being, that Septimius Felton had at last 
gone raving mad on the hilltop that he was so 
fond of haunting; and those who listened to his 
shrieks said that he was calling to the Devil; 
and some said that by certain exorcisms he had 
caused the appearance of a battle in the air, 
charging squadrons, cannon flashes, champions 
encountering; all of which foreboded some real 
battle to be fought with the enemies of the 
country; and as the battle of Monmouth chanced 
to occur, either the very next day, or about that 
time, this was supposed to be either caused or 
foretold by Septimius’s eccentricities; and as the 
287 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


battle was not very favorable to our arms, the 
patriotism of Septimius suffered much in popu¬ 
lar estimation. 

But he knew nothing, thought nothing, cared 
nothing about his country, or his country's bat¬ 
tles ; he was as sane as he had been for a year 
past, and was wise enough, though merely by 
instinct, to throw off some of his superfluous 
excitement by these wild gestures, with wild 
shouts, and restless activity; and when he had 
partly accomplished this he returned to the 
house, and, late as it was, kindled his fire, and 
began anew the processes of chemistry, now en¬ 
lightened by the late teachings. A new agent 
seemed to him to mix itself up with his toil and 
to forward his purpose ; something helped him 
along; everything became facile to his manipu¬ 
lation, clear to his thought. In this way he 
spent the night, and when at sunrise he let in 
the eastern light upon his study, the thing was 
done. 

Septimius had achieved it. That is to say, he 
had succeeded in amalgamating his materials so 
that they acted upon one another, and in ac¬ 
cordance ; and had produced a result that had a 
subsistence in itself, and a right to be; a some¬ 
thing potent and substantial; each ingredient 
contributing its part to form a new essence, 
which was as real and individual as anything it 
was formed from. But in order to perfect it, 
288 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


there was necessity that the powers of nature 
should act quietly upon it through a month of 
sunshine ; that the moon, too, should have its 
part in the production ; and so he must wait 
patiently for this. Wait! surely he would! 
Had he not time for waiting ? Were he to wait 
till old age, it would not be too much ; for all 
future time would have it in charge to repay 
him. 

So he poured the inestimable liquor into a 
glass vase, well secured from the air, and placed 
it in the sunshine, shifting it from one sunny 
window to another, in order that it might ripen; 
moving it gently lest he should disturb the liv¬ 
ing spirit that he knew to be in it. And he 
watched it from day to day, watched the reflec¬ 
tions in it, watched its lustre, which seemed to 
him to grow greater day by day, as if it imbibed 
the sunlight into it. Never was there anything 
so bright as this. It changed its hue, too, grad¬ 
ually, being now a rich purple, now a crimson, 
now a violet, now a blue; going through all 
these prismatic colors without losing any of its 
brilliance, and never was there such a hue as the 
sunlight took in falling through it and resting 
on his floor. And strange and beautiful it was, 
too, to look through this medium at the outer 
world, and see how it was glorified and made 
anew, and did not look like the same world, 
although there were all its familiar marks. And 
289 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


then, past his window, seen through this, went 
the farmer and his wife, on saddle and pillion, 
jogging to meeting-house or market; and the 
very dog, the cow coming home from pasture, 
the old familiar faces of his childhood, looked 
differently. And so at last, at the end of the 
month, it settled into a most deep and brilliant 
crimson, as if it were the essence of the blood 
of the young man whom he had slain ; the flower 
being now triumphant, it had given its own hue 
to the whole mass, and had grown brighter 
every day ; so that it seemed to have inherent 
light, as if it were a planet by itself, a heart of 
crimson fire burning within it. 

And when this had been done, and there was 
no more change, showing that the digestion was 
perfect, then he took it and placed it where the 
changing moon would fall upon it; and then 
again he watched it, covering it in darkness by 
day, revealing it to the moon by night; and 
watching it here, too, through more changes. 
And by and by he perceived that the deep crim¬ 
son hue was departing, — not fading; we can¬ 
not say that, because of the prodigious lustre 
which still pervaded it, and was not less strong 
than ever ; but certainly the hue became fainter, 
now a rose color, now fainter, fainter still, till 
there was only left the purest whiteness of the 
moon itself; a change that somewhat disap¬ 
pointed and grieved Septimius, though still it 
290 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


seemed fit that the water of life should be of 
no one richness, because it must combine all. 
As the absorbed young man gazed through the 
lonely nights at his beloved liquor, he fancied 
sometimes that he could see wonderful things 
in the crystal sphere of the vase; as in Doctor 
Dee's magic crystal used to be seen, which now 
lies in the British Museum; representations, it 
might be, of things in the far past, or in the 
further future, scenes in which he himself was 
to act, persons yet unborn, the beautiful and 
the wise, with whom he was to be associated, 
palaces and towers, modes of hitherto unseen 
architecture, that old hall in England to which 
he had a hereditary right, with its gables, and 
its smooth lawn ; the witch meetings in which 
his ancestor used to take part; Aunt Keziah on 
her deathbed; and, flitting through all, the shade 
of Sibyl Dacy, eying him from secret nooks, or 
some remoteness, with her peculiar mischievous 
smile, beckoning him into the sphere. All such 
visions would he see, and then become aware 
that he had been in a dream, superinduced by 
too much watching, too intent thought; so that 
living among so many dreams, he was almost 
afraid that he should find himself waking out of 
yet another, and find that the vase itself and 
the liquid it contained were also dream-stuff. 
But no ; these were real. 

There was one change that surprised him, 
291 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


although he accepted it without doubt, and, in¬ 
deed, it did imply a wonderful efficacy, at least 
singularity, in the newly converted liquid. It 
grew strangely cool in temperature in the latter 
part of his watching it. It appeared to imbibe 
its coldness from the cold, chaste moon, until 
it seemed to Septimius that it was colder than 
ice itself; the mist gathered upon the crystal 
vase as upon a tumbler of iced water in a warm 
room. Some say it actually gathered thick with 
frost, crystallized into a thousand fantastic and 
beautiful shapes, but this I do not know so 
well. Only it was very cold. Septimius pon¬ 
dered upon it, and thought he saw that life it¬ 
self was cold, individual in its being, a high, 
pure essence, chastened from all heats; cold, 
therefore, and therefore invigorating. 

Thus much, inquiring deeply, and with pain¬ 
ful research into the liquid which Septimius con¬ 
cocted, have I been able to learn about it, — its 
aspect, its properties; and now I suppose it to 
be quite perfect, and that nothing remains but 
to put it to such use as he had so long been 
laboring for. But this, somehow or other, he 
found in himself a strong reluctance to do ; he 
paused, as it were, at the point where his path¬ 
way separated itself from that of other men, and 
meditated whether it were worth while to give 
up everything that Providence had provided, and 
take instead only this lonely gift of immortal life. 

292 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Not that he ever really had any doubt about it; 
no, indeed ; but it was his security, his conscious¬ 
ness that he held the bright sphere of all futu¬ 
rity in his hand, that made him dally a little, now 
that he could quaff immortality as soon as he 
liked. 

Besides, now that he looked forward from the 
verge of mortal destiny, the path before him 
seemed so very lonely. Might he not seek 
some one own friend — one single heart — be¬ 
fore he took the final step ? There was Sibyl 
Dacy ! O, what bliss, if that pale girl might 
set out with him on his journey! how sweet, 
how sweet, to wander with her through the places 
else so desolate ! for he could but half see, half 
know things, without her to help him. And 
perhaps it might be so. She must already know, 
or strongly suspect, that he was engaged in some 
deep, mysterious research ; it might be that, with 
her sources of mysterious knowledge among her 
legendary lore, she knew of this. Then, O, to 
think of those dreams which lovers have always 
had, when their new love makes the old earth 
seem so happy and glorious a place, that not a 
thousand nor an endless succession of years can 
exhaust it, — all those realized for him and her! 
If this could not be, what should he do ? Would 
he venture onward into such a wintry futurity, 
symbolized, perhaps, by the coldness of the crys¬ 
tal goblet? He shivered at the thought. 

293 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Now, what had passed between Septimius and 
Sibyl Dacy is not upon record, only that one 
day they were walking together on the hilltop, 
or sitting by the little hillock, and talking ear¬ 
nestly together. Sibyl’s face was a little flushed 
with some excitement, and really she looked very 
beautiful; and Septimius’s dark face, too, had a 
solemn triumph in it that made him also beau¬ 
tiful ; so rapt he was after all those watchings, 
and emaciations, and the pure, unworldly, self- 
denying life that he had spent. They talked as 
if there were some foregone conclusion on which 
they based what they said. 

Will you not be weary in the time that we 
shall spend together ? ” asked he. 

O no,” said Sibyl, smiling, “ I am sure that 
it will be very full of enjoyment.” 

‘^Yes,” said Septimius, ‘‘though now I must 
remould my anticipations; for I have only dared, 
hitherto, to map out a solitary existence.” 

“ And how did you do that ? ” asked Sibyl. 

“ O, there is nothing that would come amiss,” 
answered Septimius ; “ for, truly, as I have lived 
apart from men, yet it is really not because I 
have no taste for whatever humanity includes : 
but I would fain, if I might, live everybody’s 
life at once, or, since that may not be, each in 
succession. I would try the life of power, rul¬ 
ing men ; but that might come later, after I had 
had long experience of men, and had lived 
294 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

through much history, and had seen, as a disin¬ 
terested observer, how men might best be influ¬ 
enced for their own good. I would be a great 
traveller at first; and as a man newly coming 
into possession of an estate goes over it, and 
views each separate field and woodlot, and what¬ 
ever features it contains, so will I, whose the 
world is, because I possess it forever; whereas 
all others are but transitory guests. So will I 
wander over this world of mine, and be ac¬ 
quainted with all its shores, seas, rivers, moun¬ 
tains, fields, and the various peoples who in¬ 
habit them, and to whom it is my purpose to 
be a benefactor; for think not, dear Sibyl, that 
I suppose this great lot of mine to have devolved 
upon me without great duties, — heavy and dif¬ 
ficult to fulfil, though glorious in their adequate 
fulfilment. But for all this there will be time. 
In a century I shall partially have seen this 
earth, and known at least its boundaries, — have 
gotten for myself the outline, to be filled up 
hereafter.’* 

And I, too,” said Sibyl, “ will have my du¬ 
ties and labors ; for while you are wandering 
about among men, I will go among women, and 
observe and converse with them, from the prin¬ 
cess to the peasant girl ; and will find out what 
is the matter, that woman gets so large a share 
of human misery laid on her weak shoulders. 
I will see why it is that, whether she be a royal 
295 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


princess, she has to be sacrificed to matters of 
state, or a cottage girl, still somehow the thing 
not fit for her is done ; and whether there is or 
no some deadly curse on woman, so that she has 
nothing to do, and nothing to enjoy, but only 
to be wronged by man, and still to love him, 
and despise herself for it, — to be shaky in her 
revenges. And then if, after all this investiga¬ 
tion, it turns out — as I suspect — that woman is 
not capable of being helped, that there is some¬ 
thing inherent in herself that makes it hope¬ 
less to struggle for her redemption, then what 
shall I do ? Nay, I know not, unless to preach 
to the sisterhood that they all kill their female 
children as fast as they are born, and then let 
the generations of men manage as they can ! 
Woman, so feeble and crazy in body, fair enough 
sometimes, but full of infirmities ; not strong, 
with nerves prone to every pain ; ailing, full of 
little weaknesses, more contemptible than great 
ones !'' 

‘‘ That would be a dreary end, Sibyl,’' said 
Septimius. ‘‘ But I trust that we shall be able 
to hush up this weary and perpetual wail of wo¬ 
mankind on easier terms than that. Well, dear¬ 
est Sibyl, after we have spent a hundred years 
in examining into the real state of mankind, and 
another century in devising and putting in ex¬ 
ecution remedies for his ills, until our maturer 
thought has time to perfect his cure, we shall 
296 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


then have earned a little playtime, — a century 
of pastime, in which we will search out whatever 
joy can be had by thoughtful people, and that 
childlike sportiveness which comes out of grow¬ 
ing wisdom, and enjoyment of every kind. We 
will gather about us everything beautiful and 
stately, a great palace, for we shall then be so 
experienced that all riches will be easy for us to 
get; with rich furniture, pictures, statues, and 
all royal ornaments ; and side by side with this 
life we will have a little cottage, and see which 
is the happiest, for this has always been a dis¬ 
pute. For this century we will neither toil nor 
spin, nor think of anything beyond the day that 
is passing over us. There is time enough to 
do all that we have to do.'' 

“ A hundred years of play ! Will not that 
be tiresome ? " said Sibyl. 

“ If it is," said Septimius, the next century 
shall make up for it; for then we will contrive 
deep philosophies, take up one theory after an¬ 
other, and find out its hollowness and inadequacy, 
and fling it aside, the rotten rubbish that they 
all are, until we have strewn the whole realm of 
human thought with the broken fragments, all 
smashed up. And then, on this great mound 
of broken potsherds (like that great Monte Tes- 
taccio, which we will go to Rome to see), we 
will build a system that shall stand, and by which 
mankind shall look far into the ways of Pro- 
297 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


vidence, and find practical uses of the deepest 
kind in what it has thought merely specula¬ 
tion. And then, when the hundred years are 
over, and this great work done, we will still be 
so free in mind, that we shall see the emptiness 
of our own theory, though men see only its 
truth. And so, if we like more of this pastime, 
then shall another and another century, and as 
many more as we like, be spent in the same 
way.’' 

“ And after that another playday ? ” asked 
Sibyl Dacy. 

“ Yes,” said Septimius, only it shall not be 
called so ; for the next century we will get 
ourselves made rulers of the earth ; and know¬ 
ing men so well, and having so wrought our 
theories of government and what not, we will 
proceed to execute them, — which will be as 
easy to us as a child’s arrangement of its dolls. 
We will smile superior, to see what a facile thing 
it is to make a people happy. In our reign of 
a hundred years, we shall have time to extin¬ 
guish errors, and make the world see the absurd¬ 
ity of them ; to substitute other methods of 
government for the old, bad ones ; to fit the 
people to govern itself, to do with little gov¬ 
ernment, to do with none ; and when this is 
effected, we will vanish from our loving people, 
and be seen no more, but be reverenced as gods, 
— we, meanwhile, being overlooked, and smil- 
298 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ing to ourselves, amid the very crowd that is 
looking for us/’ 

I intend,” said Sibyl, making this wild talk 
wilder by that petulance which she so often 
showed, — “I intend to introduce a new fash¬ 
ion of dress when 1 am queen, and that shall be 
my part of the great reform which you are go¬ 
ing to make. And for my crown, I intend to 
have it of flowers, in which that strange crim¬ 
son one shall be the chief; and when I vanish, 
this flower shall remain behind, and perhaps 
they shall have a glimpse of me wearing it in 
the crowd. Well, what next ? ” 

After this,” said Septimius, “ having seen 
so much of affairs, and having lived so many 
hundred years, I will sit down and write a his¬ 
tory, such as histories ought to be, and never 
have been. And it shall be so wise, and so 
vivid, and so self-evidently true, that people 
shall be convinced from it that there is some 
undying one among them, because only an eye¬ 
witness could have written it, or could have 
gained so much wisdom as was needful for it.” 

And for my part in the history,” said Sibyl, 
I will record the various lengths of women’s 
waists, and the fashion of their sleeves. What 
next ? ” 

By this time,” said Septimius, — how many 
hundred years have we now lived ? — by this 
time, I shall have pretty well prepared myself 
299 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


for what I have been contemplating from the 
first. I will become a religious teacher, and 
promulgate a faith, and prove it by prophecies 
and miracles ; for my long experience will enable 
me to do the first, and the acquaintance which 
I shall have formed with the mysteries of sci¬ 
ence will put the latter at my fingers’ ends. So 
I will be a prophet, a greater than Mahomet, 
and will put all man’s hopes into my doctrine, 
and make him good, holy, happy ; and he shall 
put up his prayers to his Creator, and find them 
answered, because they shall be wise, and ac¬ 
companied with effort. This will be a great 
work, and may earn me another rest and pas¬ 
time.” 

[He would seCy in one age^ the column raised in 
memory of some great deed of his in a former one7\ 
And what shall that be ? ” asked Sibyl 
Dacy. 

‘‘ Why,” said Septimius, looking askance at 
her, and speaking with a certain hesitation, ‘‘ I 
have learned, Sibyl, that it is a weary toil for a 
man to be always good, holy, and upright. In 
my life as a sainted prophet, I shall have some¬ 
what too much of this; it will be enervating 
and sickening, and I shall need another kind of 
diet. So, in the next hundred years, Sibyl, — 
in that one little century, — methinks I would 
fain be what men call wicked. How can I 
know my brethren, unless I do that onceI 
300 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


would experience all. Imagination is only a 
dream. I can imagine myself a murderer, and 
all other modes of crime; but it leaves no real 
impression on the heart. I must live these 
things. 

[The rampant unrestraint^ which is the charac¬ 
teristic of wickedness, 

“Good,’’ said Sibyl quietly; “and I too.” 

“ And thou too ! ” exclaimed Septimius. 
“Not so, Sibyl. I would reserve thee, good 
and pure, so that there may be to me the means 
of redemption, — some stable hold in the moral 
confusion that I will create around myself, 
whereby I shall by and by get back into order, 
virtue, and religion. Else all is lost, and I may 
become a devil, and make my own hell around 
me ; so, Sibyl, do thou be good forever, and 
not fall nor slip a moment. Promise me ! ” 

“We will consider about that in some other 
century,” replied Sibyl composedly. “ There 
is time enough yet. What next ? ” 

“ Nay, this is enough for the present,” said 
Septimius. “ New vistas will open themselves 
before us continually, as we go onward. How 
idle to think that one little lifetime would ex¬ 
haust the world ! After hundreds of centuries, 
I feel as if we might still be on the threshold. 
There is the material world, for instance, to per¬ 
fect ; to draw out the powers of nature, so that 
man shall, as it were, give life to all modes of 
301 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


matter, and make them his ministering servants. 
Swift ways of travel, by earth, sea, and air; 
machines for doing whatever the hand of man 
now does, so that we shall do all but put souls 
into our wheelwork and watchwork; the modes 
of making night into day, of getting control 
over the weather and the seasons ; the virtues 
of plants, — these are some of the easier things 
thou shalt help me do.” 

‘‘ I have no taste for that,” said Sibyl, “ un¬ 
less I could make an embroidery worked of 
steel.” 

And so, Sibyl,” continued Septimius, pur¬ 
suing his strain of solemn enthusiasm, inter¬ 
mingled as it was with wild, excursive vagaries, 
we will go on as many centuries as we choose. 
Perhaps,— yet 1 think not so, — perhaps, how¬ 
ever, in the course of lengthened time, we may 
find that the world is the same always, and 
mankind the same, and all possibilities of human 
fortune the same ; so that by and by we shall 
discover that the same old scenery serves the 
world’s stage in all ages, and that the story is 
always the same ; yes, and the actors always the 
same, though none but we can be aware of it; 
and that the actors and spectators would grow 
weary of it, were they not bathed in forgetful 
sleep, and so think themselves new made in each 
successive lifetime. We may find that the stuff 
of the world’s drama, and the passions which 
302 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


seem to play in it, have a monotony, when once 
we have tried them; that in only once trying 
them, and viewing them, we find out their se¬ 
cret, and that afterwards the show is too superfi¬ 
cial to arrest our attention. As dramatists and 
novelists repeat their plots, so does man’s life 
repeat itself, and at length grows stale. This 
is what, in my desponding moments, I have 
sometimes suspected. What to do, if this be 
so?” 

Nay, that is a serious consideration,” re¬ 
plied Sibyl, assuming an air of mock alarm, 
‘‘ if you really think we shall be tired of life, 
whether or no.” 

“ I do not think it, Sibyl,” replied Septimius. 
‘‘ By much musing on this matter, I have con¬ 
vinced myself that man is not capable of de¬ 
barring himself utterly from death, since it is 
evidently a remedy for many evils that nothing 
else would cure. This means that we have dis¬ 
covered of removing death to an indefinite dis¬ 
tance is not supernatural ; on the contrary, it is 
the most natural thing in the world, — the very 
perfection of the natural, since it consists in 
applying the powers and processes of Nature to 
the prolongation of the existence of man, her 
most perfect handiwork ; and this could only be 
done by entire accordance and co-effort with 
Nature. Therefore Nature is not changed, and 
death remains as one of her steps, just as hereto- 

303 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


fore. Therefore, when we have exhausted the 
world, whether by going through its apparently 
vast variety, or by satisfying ourselves that it is 
all a repetition of one thing, we will call death 
as the friend to introduce us to something 
new.” 

[He would write a poem^ or other great work^ 
inappreciable at firsts and live to see it famousy — 
himself among his own posterity 

“ O, insatiable love of life! ” exclaimed Sibyl, 
looking at him with strange pity. ‘‘ Canst thou 
not conceive that mortal brain and heart might 
at length be content to sleep ? ” 

“Never, Sibyl!” replied Septimius, with 
horror. “ My spirit delights in the thought of 
an infinite eternity. Does not thine ? ” 

“ One little interval — a few centuries only 
— of dreamless sleep,” said Sibyl pleadingly. 
“ Cannot you allow me that ? ” 

“ I fear,” said Septimius, “ our identity would 
change in that repose ; it would be a Lethe be¬ 
tween the two parts of our being, and with such 
disconnection a continued life would be equiva¬ 
lent to a new one, and therefore valueless.” 

In such talk, snatching in the fog at the frag¬ 
ments of philosophy, they continued fitfully ; 
Septimius calming down his enthusiasm thus, 
which otherwise might have burst forth in mad¬ 
ness, affrighting the quiet little village with the 
marvellous things about which they mused. 

304 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

Septimius could not quite satisfy himself whether 
Sibyl Dacy shared in his belief of the success of 
his experiment, and was confident, as he was, 
that he held in his control the means of un¬ 
limited life; neither was he sure that she loved 
him, — loved him well enough to undertake 
with him the long march that he propounded 
to her, making a union an affair of so vastly 
more importance than it is in the brief lifetime 
of other mortals. But he determined to let her 
drink the invaluable draught along with him, 
and to trust to the long future, and the better 
opportunities that time would give him, and 
his outliving all rivals, and the loneliness which 
an undying life would throw around her, with¬ 
out him, as the pledges of his success. 

And now the happy day had come for the 
celebration of Robert Hagburn’s marriage with 
pretty Rose Garfield, the brave with the fair; 
and, as usual, the ceremony was to take place in 
the evening, and at the house of the bride ; and 
preparations were made accordingly: the wed¬ 
ding cake, which the bride’s own fair hands had 
mingled with her tender hopes, and seasoned it 
with maiden fears, so that its composition was 
as much ethereal as sensual; and the neighbors 
and friends were invited, and came with their 
best wishes and good will. For Rose shared 
not at all the distrust, the suspicion, or what- 

305 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ever it was, that had waited on the true branch 
of Septimius’s family, in one shape or another, 
ever since the memory of man ; and all — ex¬ 
cept, it might be, some disappointed damsels 
who had hoped to win Robert Hagburn for 
themselves — rejoiced at the approaching union 
'of this fit couple, and wished them happiness. 

Septimius, too, accorded his gracious consent 
to the union, and while he thought within him¬ 
self that such a brief union was not worth the 
trouble and feeling which his sister and her lover 
wasted on it, still he wished them happiness. 
As he compared their brevity with his long du¬ 
ration, he smiled at their little fancies of loves, 
of which he seemed to see the end; the flower 
of a brief summer, blooming beautifully enough, 
and shedding its leaves, the fragrance of which 
would linger a little while in his memory, and 
then be gone. He wondered how far in the 
coming centuries he should remember this 
wedding of his sister Rose ; perhaps he would 
meet, five hundred years hence, some descendant 
of the marriage, — a fair girl, bearing the traits 
of his sister's fresh beauty; a young man, re¬ 
calling the strength and manly comeliness of 
Robert Hagburn, — and could claim acquaint¬ 
ance and kindred. He would be the guardian, 
from generation to generation, of this race ; their 
ever reappearing friend at times of need ; and 
meeting them from age to age, would find tradi- 
306 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

tions of himself growing poetical in the lapse of 
time; so that he would smile at seeing his fea¬ 
tures look so much more majestic in their fancies 
than in reality. So all along their course, in 
the history of the family, he would trace him¬ 
self, and by his traditions he would make them 
acquainted with all their ancestors, and so still 
be warmed by kindred blood. 

And Robert Hagburn, full of the life of the 
moment, warm with generous blood, came in a 
new uniform, looking fit to be the founder of a 
race who should look back to a hero sire. He 
greeted Septimius as a brother. The minister, 
too, came, of course, and mingled with the 
throng, with decorous aspect, and greeted Sep¬ 
timius with more formality than he had been 
wont; for Septimius had insensibly withdrawn 
himself from the minister's intimacy, as he got 
deeper and deeper into the enthusiasm of his 
own cause. Besides, the minister did not fail 
to see that his once devoted scholar had con¬ 
tracted habits of study into the secrets of which 
he himself was not admitted, and that he no 
longer alluded to studies for the ministry; and 
he was inclined to suspect that Septimius had 
unfortunately allowed infidel ideas to assail, 
at least, if not to overcome, that fortress of 
firm faith, which he had striven to found and 
strengthen in his mind, — a misfortune fre¬ 
quently befalling speculative and imaginative 

307 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and melancholic persons, like Septimius, whom 
the Devil is all the time planning to assault, be¬ 
cause he feels confident of having a traitor in 
the garrison. The minister had heard that this 
was the fashion of Septimius's family, and that 
even the famous divine, who, in his eyes, was 
the glory of it, had had his season of wild in¬ 
fidelity in his youth, before grace touched him ; 
and had always thereafter, throughout his long 
and pious life, been subject to seasons of black 
and sulphurous despondency, during which he 
disbelieved the faith which, at other times, he 
preached powerfully. 

‘‘ Septimius, my young friend,’' said he, are 
you yet ready to be a preacher of the truth ? ” 

“ Not yet, reverend pastor,” said Septimius, 
smiling at the thought of the day before, that 
the career of a prophet would be one that he 
should some time assume. ‘‘ There will be time 
enough to preach the truth when I better know 
it.” 

“You do not look as if you knew it so well 
as formerly, instead of better,” said his reverend 
friend, looking into the deep furrows of his brow, 
and into his wild and troubled eyes. 

“ Perhaps not,” said Septimius. “ There is 
time yet.” 

These few words passed amid the bustle and 
murmur of the evening, while the guests were 
assembling, and all were awaiting the marriage 
308 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


with that interest which the event continually 
brings with it, common as it is, so that nothing 
but death is commoner. Everybody congratu¬ 
lated the modest Rose, who looked quiet and 
happy ; and so she stood up at the proper time, 
and the minister married them with a certain 
fervor and individual application, that made 
them feel they were married indeed. Then there 
ensued a salutation of the bride, the first to kiss 
her being the minister, and then some respect¬ 
able old justices and farmers, each with his 
friendly smile and joke. Then went round the 
cake and wine, and other good cheer, and the 
hereditary jokes with which brides used to be as¬ 
sailed in those days. I think, too, there was a 
dance, though how the couples in the reel found 
space to foot it in the little room, I cannot ima¬ 
gine ; at any rate, there was a bright light out 
of the windows, gleaming across the road, and 
such a sound of the babble of numerous voices 
and merriment, that travellers passing by, on 
the lonely Lexington road, wished they were of 
the party ; and one or two of them stopped and 
went in, and saw the new-made bride, drank to 
her health, and took a piece of the wedding cake 
home to dream upon. 

[// is to he observed that Rose had requested of 
her friend^ Sibyl Dacy^ to act as one of her brides¬ 
maids^ of whom she had only the modest number of 
two; and the strange girl declined^ saying that 

309 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

her intermeddling would bring ill fortune to the 
marriageJ] 

Why do you talk such nonsense, Sibyl ? 
asked Rose. ‘^You love me, I am sure, and 
wish me well; and your smile, such as it is, will 
be the promise of prosperity, and I wish for it 
on my wedding day.” 

I am an ill fate, a sinister demon. Rose; a 
thing that has sprung out of a grave; and you 
had better not entreat me to twine my poi¬ 
son tendrils round your destinies. You would 
repent it.” 

O, hush, hush ! ” said Rose, putting her 
hand over her friend's mouth. Naughty one ! 
you can bless me, if you will, only you are way¬ 
ward.” 

Bless you, then, dearest Rose, and all hap¬ 
piness on your marriage ! ” 

Septimius had been duly present at the mar¬ 
riage, and kissed his sister with moist eyes, it 
is said, and a solemn smile, as he gave her into 
the keeping of Robert Hagburn; and there 
was something in the words he then used that 
afterwards dwelt on her mind, as if they had a 
meaning in them that asked to be sought into, 
and needed reply. 

There, Rose,” he had said, I have made 
myself ready for my destiny. I have no ties 
any more, and may set forth on my path with¬ 
out scruple.” 


310 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


‘‘Am I not your sister still, Septimius?” 
said she, shedding a tear or two. 

“ A married woman is no sister; nothing 
but a married woman till she becomes a mo¬ 
ther ; and then what shall I have to do with 
you ? ” 

He spoke with a certain eagerness to prove 
his case, which Rose could not understand, but 
which was probably to justify himself in sever¬ 
ing, as he was about to do, the link that con¬ 
nected him with his race, and making for him¬ 
self an exceptional destiny, which, if it did not 
entirely insulate him, would at least create new 
relations with all. There he stood, poor fel¬ 
low, looking on the mirthful throng, not in exul¬ 
tation, as might have been supposed, but with a 
strange sadness upon him. It seemed to him, 
at that final moment, as if it were Death 
that linked together all; yes, and so gave the 
warmth to all. Wedlock itself seemed a bro¬ 
ther of Death ; wedlock, and its sweetest hopes, 
its holy companionship, its mysteries, and all 
that warm mysterious brotherhood that is 
between men; passing as they do from mys¬ 
tery to mystery in a little gleam of light; that 
wild, sweet charm of uncertainty and tempora¬ 
riness, — how lovely it made them all, how in¬ 
nocent, even the worst of them ; how hard and 
prosaic was his own situation in comparison to 
theirs. He felt a gushing tenderness for them. 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


as if he would have flung aside his endless life, 
and rushed among them, saying, — 

Embrace me ! I am still one of you, and 
will not leave you ! Hold me fast! ” 

After this it was not particularly observed 
that both Septimius and Sibyl Dacy had disap¬ 
peared from the party, which, however, went 
on no less merrily without them. In truth, 
the habits of Sibyl Dacy were so wayward, and 
little squared by general rules, that nobody 
wondered or tried to account for them; and as 
for Septimius, he was such a studious man, so 
little accustomed to mingle with his fellow 
citizens on any occasion, that it was rather 
wondered at that he should have spent so large 
a part of a sociable evening with them, than 
that he should now retire. 

After they were gone the party received an 
unexpected addition, being no other than the 
excellent Doctor Portsoaken, who came to the 
door, announcing that he had just arrived on 
horseback from Boston, and that, his object 
being to have an interview with Sibyl Dacy, 
he had been to Robert Hagburn’s house in 
quest of her; but, learning from the old grand¬ 
mother that she was here, he had followed. 

Not finding her, he evinced no alarm, but 
was easily induced to sit down among the 
merry company, and partake of some brandy, 
which, with other liquors, Robert had pro- 
312 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


vided in sufficient abundance; and that being 
a day when man had not learned to fear the 
glass, the doctor found them all in a state of 
hilarious chat. Taking out his German pipe, 
he joined the group of smokers in the great 
chimney corner, and entered into conversation 
with them, laughing and joking, and mixing up 
his jests with that mysterious suspicion which 
gave so strange a character to his intercourse. 

“ It is good fortune, Mr. Hagburn,” quoth 
he, “that brings me here on this auspicious 
day. And how has been my learned young 
friend Doctor Septimius, — for so he should be 
called, — and how have flourished his studies 
of late ? The scientific world may look for great 
fruits from that decoction of his.'* 

“He*11 never equal Aunt Keziah for herb 
drinks," said an old woman, smoking her pipe 
in the corner, “ though I think likely he *11 
make a good doctor enough by and by. Poor 
Kezzy, she took a drop too much of her mix¬ 
ture, after all. I used to tell her how it would 
be ; for Kezzy and I were pretty good friends 
once, before the Indian in her came out so 
strongly, — the squaw and the witch, for she 
had them both in her blood, poor yellow 
Kezzy!" 

“Yes! had she indeed?" quoth the doctor; 
“and I have heard an odd story, that if the 
Feltons chose to go back to the old country, 

313 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

they'd find a home and an estate there ready 
for them/' 

The old woman mused, and puffed at her 
pipe. ‘‘ Ah, yes," muttered she, at length, I 
remember to have heard something about that; 
and how, if Felton chose to strike into the 
woods, he'd find a tribe of wild Indians there 
ready to take him for their sagamore, and con¬ 
quer the whites; and how, if he chose to go to 
England, there was a great old house all ready 
for him, and a fire burning in the hall, and 
a dinner table spread, and the tail-posted bed 
ready, with clean sheets, in the best chamber, 
and a man waiting at the gate to show him in. 
Only there was a spell of a bloody footstep left 
on the threshold by the last that came out, so 
that none of his posterity could ever cross it 
again. But that was all nohsense !" 

Strange old things one dreams in a chim¬ 
ney corner," quoth the doctor. Do you re¬ 
member any more of this ? " 

‘‘No, no; I'm so forgetful nowadays," said 
old Mrs. Hagburn; “ only it seems as if I had 
my memories in my pipe, and they curl up in 
smoke. I 've known these Feltons all along, 
or it seems as if I had; for I'm nigh ninety 
years old now, and I was two year old in the 
witch's time, and I have seen a piece of the 
halter that old Felton was hung with." 

314 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


Some of the company laughed. 

“That must have been a curious sight,” 
quoth the doctor. 

“ It is not well,” said the minister seriously 
to the doctor, “to stir up these old remem¬ 
brances, making the poor old lady appear ab¬ 
surd. I know not that she need to be ashamed 
of showing the weaknesses of the generation to 
which she belonged; but I do not like to see 
old age put at this disadvantage among the 
young.” 

“Nay, my good and reverend sir,” returned 
the doctor, “ I mean no such disrespect as you 
seem to think. Forbid it, ye upper powers, 
that I should cast any ridicule on beliefs, — 
superstitions, do you call them ? — that are as 
worthy of faith, for aught I know, as any that 
are preached in the pulpit. If the old lady 
would tell me any secret of the old Felton's 
science, I shall treasure it sacredly ; for I in¬ 
terpret these stories about his miraculous gifts 
as meaning that he had a great command over 
natural science, the virtues of plants, the capa¬ 
cities of the human body.” 

While these things were passing, or before 
they passed, or some time in that eventful night, 
Septimius had withdrawn to his study, when 
there was a low tap at the door, and, opening 
it, Sibyl Dacy stood before him. It seemed as 

315 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


if there had been a previous arrangement be¬ 
tween them ; for Septimius evinced no surprise, 
only took her hand and drew her in. 

“ How cold your hand is ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Nothing is so cold, except it be the potent 
medicine. It makes me shiver.” 

“ Never mind that,” said Sibyl. You look 
frightened at me.” 

Do I ?” said Septimius. “ No, not that; 
but this is such a crisis; and methinks it is not 
yourself. Your eyes glare on me strangely.” 

‘‘ Ah, yes ; and you are not frightened at me ? 
Well, I will try not to be frightened at myself. 
Time was, however, when I should have been.” 

She looked round at Septimius's study, with 
its few old books, its implements of science, 
crucibles, retorts, and electrical machines; all 
these she noticed little ; but on the table drawn 
before the fire, there was something that at¬ 
tracted her attention ; it was a vase that seemed 
of crystal, made in that old fashion in which the 
Venetians made their glasses, — a most pure 
kind of glass, with a long stalk, within which 
was a curved elaboration of fancy work, wreathed 
and twisted. This old glass was an heirloom 
of the Feltons, a relic that had come down with 
many traditions, bringing its frail fabric safely 
through all the perils of time, that had shat¬ 
tered empires; and, if space sufficed, I could 
tell many stories of this curious vase, which was 
316 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


said, in its time, to have been the instrument 
both of the DeviPs sacrament in the forest, and 
of the Christian in the village meeting-house. 
But, at any rate, it had been a part of the choice 
household gear of one of Septimius's ancestors, 
and was engraved with his arms, artistically done. 

‘‘Is that the drink of immortality?” said 
Sibyl. 

“ Yes, Sibyl,” said Septimius. “ Do but 
touch the goblet; see how cold it is.” 

She put her slender, pallid fingers on the 
side of the goblet, and shuddered, just as Sep¬ 
timius did when he touched her hand. 

“ Why should it be so cold ? ” said she, look¬ 
ing at Septimius. 

“Nay, I know not, unless because endless 
life goes round the circle and meets death, and 
is just the same with it. O Sibyl, it is a fearful 
thing that I have accomplished ! Do you not 
feel it so ? What if this shiver should last us 
through eternity ? ” 

“ Have you pursued this object so long,” 
said Sibyl, “ to have these fears respecting it 
now ? In that case, methinks I could be bold 
enough to drink it alone, and look down upon 
you, as I did so, smiling at your fear to take 
the life offered you.” 

“ I do not fear,” said Septimius ; “ but yet I 
acknowledge there is a strange, powerful abhor¬ 
rence in me towards this draught, which I know 

317 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


not how to account for, except as the reaction, 
the revulsion of feeling, consequent upon its 
being too long overstrained in one direction. 
I cannot help it. The meannesses, the little¬ 
nesses, the perplexities, the general irksomeness 
of life, weigh upon me strangely. Thou didst 
refuse to drink with me. That being the case, 
methinks I could break the jewelled goblet now, 
untasted, and choose the grave as the wiser 
part.'' 

‘‘ The beautiful goblet! What a pity to break 
it 1 " said Sibyl, with her characteristic malign 
and mysterious smile. You cannot find it in 
your heart to do it." 

“ I could, — I can. So thou wilt not drink 
with me ?" 

“ Do you know what you ask ? " said Sibyl. 
“ I am a being that sprung up, like this flower, 
out of a grave; or, at least, I took root in a 
grave, and, growing there, have twined about 
your life, until you cannot possibly escape from 
me. Ah, Septimius 1 you know me not. You 
know not what is in my heart towards you. Do 
you remember this broken miniature ? would 
you wish to see the features that were destroyed 
when that bullet passed ? Then look at mine 1" 
Sibyl 1 what do you tell me ? Was it you 
— were they your features — which that young 
soldier kissed as he lay dying ? " 

They were," said Sibyl. I loved him, 
318 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


and gave him that miniature, and the face they 
represented. I had given him all, and you 
slew him.'' 

“ Then you hate me," whispered Septimius. 

“ Do you call it hatred ? " asked Sibyl, smil¬ 
ing. ‘‘ Have I not aided you, thought with 
you, encouraged you, heard all your wild rav¬ 
ings when you dared to tell no one else ? kept 
up your hopes ; suggested ; helped you with 
my legendary lore to useful hints; helped you, 
also, in other ways, which you do not suspect ? 
And now you ask me if I hate you. Does 
this look like it ? " 

“ No," said Septimius. “ And yet, since 
first I knew you, there has been something 
whispering me of harm, as if I sat near some 
mischief. There is in me the wild, natural 
blood of the Indian, the instinctive, the animal 
nature, which has ways of warning that civilized 
life polishes away and cuts out; and so, Sibyl, 
never did I approach you, but there were re¬ 
luctances, drawings back, and, at the same time, 
a strong impulse to come closest to you ; and 
to that I yielded. But why, then, knowing 
that in this grave lay the man you loved, laid 
there by my hand, —why did you aid me in an 
object which you must have seen was the breath 
of my life ? " 

Ah, my friend, — my enemy, if you will 
have it so, — are you yet to learn that the wish 

319 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


of a man’s inmost heart is oftenest that by which 
he is ruined and made miserable ? But listen 
to me, Septimius. No matter for my earlier 
life; there is no reason why I should tell you 
the story, and confess to you its weakness, its 
shame. It may be, I had more cause to hate 
the tenant of that grave, than to hate you who 
unconsciously avenged my cause; nevertheless, 
I came here in hatred, and desire of revenge, 
meaning to lie in wait, and turn your dearest de¬ 
sire against you, to eat into your life, and distil 
poison into it, I sitting on this grave, and draw¬ 
ing fresh hatred from it; and at last, in the 
hour of your triumph, I meant to make the 
triumph mine.” 

‘‘ Is this still so ? ” asked Septimius, with pale 
lips ; or did your fell purpose change ? ” 

“ Septimius, I am weak, — a weak, weak girl, 
— only a girl, Septimius ; only eighteen yet! ” 
exclaimed Sibyl. ‘‘ It is young, is it not ? I 
might be forgiven much. You know not how 
bitter my purpose was to you. But look, Septi¬ 
mius,— could it be worse than this? Hush, 
be still 1 Do not stir 1 ” 

She lifted the beautiful goblet from the table, 
put it to her lips, and drank a deep draught from 
it; then, smiling mockingly, she held it towards 
him. 

“ See; I have made myself immortal before 
you. Will you drink ? ” 

320 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


He eagerly held out his hand to receive the 
goblet, but Sibyl, holding it beyond his reach a 
moment, deliberately let it fall upon the hearth, 
where it shivered into fragments, and the bright, 
cold water of immortality was all spilt, shedding 
its strange fragrance around. 

“ Sibyl, what have you done ? ” cried Septi- 
mius, in rage and horror. 

‘‘ Be quiet! See what sort of immortality I 
win by it, — then, if you like, distil your drink 
of eternity again, and quaff it.*' 

“ It is too late, Sibyl; it was a happiness that 
may never come again in a lifetime. I shall 
perish as a dog does. It is too late ! " 

Septimius,” said Sibyl, who looked strangely 
beautiful, as if the drink, giving her immortal 
life, had likewise the potency to give immortal 
beauty answering to it, “ listen to me. You have 
not learned all the secrets that lay in those old 
legends, about which we have talked so much. 
There were two recipes, discovered or learned 
by the art of the studious old Caspar Felton. 
One was said to be that secret of immortal life 
which so many old sages sought for, and which 
some were said to have found; though, if that 
were the case, it is strange some of them have 
not lived till our day. Its essence lay in a cer¬ 
tain rare flower, which, mingled properly with 
other ingredients of great potency in themselves, 
though still lacking the crowning virtue till the 
321 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


flower was supplied, produced the drink of im¬ 
mortality/’ 

Yes, and I had the flower, which I found 
in a grave,” said Septimius, “ and distilled the 
drink which you have spilt.” 

‘^You had a flower, or what you called a 
* flower,” said the girl. ‘‘ But, Septimius, there 
was yet another drink, in which the same potent 
ingredients were used ; all but the last. In this, 
instead of the beautiful flower, was mingled the 
semblance of a flower, but really a baneful growth 
out of a grave. This I sowed there, and it con¬ 
verted the drink into a poison, famous in old sci¬ 
ence, — a poison which the Borgias used, and 
Mary de Medicis, — and which has brought to 
death many a famous person, when it was desir¬ 
able to his enemies. This is the drink I helped 
you to distil. It brings on death with pleasant 
and delightful thrills of the nerves. O Septi¬ 
mius, Septimius, it is worth while to die, to be 
so blest, so exhilarated as I am now.” 

“ Good God, Sibyl, is this possible ? ” 

“ Even so, Septimius. I was helped by that 
old physician. Doctor Portsoaken, who, with 
some private purpose of his own, taught me what 
to do; for he was skilled in all the mysteries of 
those old physicians, and knew that their poisons 
at least were efficacious, whatever their drinks 
of immortality might be. But the end has not 
turned out as I meant. A girl’s fancy is so shift- 
322 



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SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


ing, Septimius. I thought I loved that youth 
in the grave yonder ; but it was you I loved, — 
and I am dying. Forgive me for my evil pur¬ 
poses, for I am dying.'' 

Why hast thou spilt the drink ? " said Sep¬ 
timius, bending his dark brows upon her, and 
frowning over her. “We might have died to¬ 
gether." 

“ No, live, Septimius," said the girl, whose 
face appeared to grow bright and joyous, as if 
the drink of death exhilarated her like an intoxi¬ 
cating fluid. “ I would not let you have it, not 
one drop. But to think," and here she laughed, 
“ what a penance, — what months of wearisome 
labor thou hast had, — and what thoughts, what 
dreams, and how I laughed in my sleeve at them 
all the time! Ha, ha, ha ! Then thou didst 
plan out future ages, and talk poetry and prose 
to me. Did I not take it very demurely, and 
answer thee in the same style ? and so thou didst 
love me, and kindly didst wish to take me with 
thee in thy immortality. O Septimius, I should 
have liked it well! Yes, latterly, only, I knew 
how the case stood. O, how I surrounded 
thee with dreams, and instead of giving thee im¬ 
mortal life, so kneaded up the little life allotted 
thee with dreams and vaporing stuff, that thou 
didst not really live even that. Ah, it was a 
pleasant pastime, and pleasant is now the end of 
it. Kiss me, thou poor Septimius, one kiss !" 

323 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


[She gives the ridiculous aspect to his scheme^ 
in an airy wayl\ 

But as SeptimiuSj who seemed stunned, in¬ 
stinctively bent forward to obey her, she drew 
back. ‘‘ No, there shall be no kiss! There 
may a little poison linger on my lips. Farewell! 
Dost thou mean still to seek for thy liquor of 
immortality ? — ah, ah! It was a good jest. We 
will laugh at it when we meet in the other 
world.” 

And here poor Sibyl Dacy's laugh grew 
fainter, and dying away, she seemed to die with 
it; for there she was, with that mirthful, half- 
malign expression still on her face, but motion¬ 
less ; so that however long Septimius’s life was 
likely to be, whether a few years or many cen¬ 
turies, he would still have her image in his mem¬ 
ory so. And here she lay among his broken 
hopes, now shattered as completely as the gob¬ 
let which held his draught, and as incapable of 
being formed again. 

The next day, as Septimius did not appear, 
there was research for him on the part of Doc¬ 
tor Portsoaken. His room was found empty, 
the bed untouched. Then they sought him on 
kis favorite hilltop; but neither was he found 
there, although something was found that added 
to the wonder and alarm of his disappearance. 
It was the cold form of Sibyl Dacy, which was 

324 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


extended on the hillock so often mentioned, 
with her arms thrown over it; but, looking in 
the dead face, the beholders were astonished to 
see a certain malign and mirthful expression, as 
if some airy part had been played out, — some 
surprise, some practical joke of a peculiarly airy 
kind had burst with fairy shoots of fire among 
the company. 

“ Ah, she is dead ! Poor Sibyl Dacy ! ex¬ 
claimed Doctor Portsoaken. “ Her scheme, 
then, has turned out amiss.” 

This exclamation seemed to imply some 
knowledge of the mystery ; and it so impressed 
the auditors, among whom was Robert Hag- 
burn, that they thought it not inexpedient to 
have an investigation; so the learned doctor 
was not uncivilly taken into custody and exam¬ 
ined. Several interesting particulars, some of 
which throw a certain degree of light on our 
narrative, were discovered. For instance, that 
Sibyl Dacy, who was a niece of the doctor, had 
been beguiled from her home and led over the 
sea by Cyril Norton, and that the doctor, ar¬ 
riving in Boston with another regiment, had 
found her there, after her lovePs death. Here 
there was some discrepancy or darkness in the 
doctor’s narrative. He appeared to have con¬ 
sented to, or instigated (for it was not quite evi¬ 
dent how far his concurrence had gone), this 
poor girl’s scheme of going and brooding over 

325 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

her lover’s grave, and living in close contiguity 
with the man who had slain him. The doctor 
had not much to say for himself on this point; 
but there was found reason to believe that he 
was acting in the interest of some English claim¬ 
ant of a great estate that was left without an 
apparent heir by the death of Cyril Norton, 
and there was even a suspicion that he, with his 
fantastic science and antiquated empiricism, had 
been at the bottom of the scheme of poisoning, 
which was so strangely intertwined with Septi- 
mius’s notion, in which he went so nearly crazed, 
of a drink of immortality. It was observable, 
however, that the doctor — such a humbug in 
scientific matters, that he had perhaps bewil¬ 
dered himself — seemed to have a sort of faith 
in the efficacy of the recipe which had so 
strangely come to light, provided the true flower 
could be discovered; but that flower, accord¬ 
ing to Doctor Portsoaken, had not been seen 
on earth for many centuries, and was banished 
probably forever. The flower, or fungus, which 
Septimius had mistaken for it, was a sort of 
earthly or devilish counterpart of it, and was 
greatly in request among the old poisoners for 
its admirable uses in their art. In fine, no tan¬ 
gible evidence being found against the worthy 
doctor, he was permitted to depart, and disap¬ 
peared from the neighborhood, to the scandal 
of many people, unhanged ; leaving behind him 
326 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 


few available effects beyond the web and empty 
skin of an enormous spider. 

As to Septimius, he returned no more to his 
cottage by the wayside, and none undertook to 
tell what had become of him ; crushed and an¬ 
nihilated, as it were, by the failure of his mag¬ 
nificent and most absurd dreams. Rumors there 
have been, however, at various times, that there 
had appeared an American claimant, who had 
made out his right to the great estate of Smith- 
elFs Hall, and had dwelt there, and left poster¬ 
ity, and that in the subsequent generation an 
ancient baronial title had been revived in favor 
of the son and heir of the American. Whether 
this was our Septimius, I cannot tell; but I 
should be rather sorry to believe that after such 
splendid schemes as he had entertained, he 
should have been content to settle down into 
the fat substance and reality of English life, and 
die in his due time, and be buried like any other 
man. 

A few years ago, while in England, I visited 
SmithelFs Hall, and was entertained there, not 
knowing at the time that I could claim its owner 
as my countryman by descent; though, as I now 
remember, I was struck by the thin, sallow, 
American cast of his face, and the lithe slender¬ 
ness of his figure, and seem now (but this may 
be my fancy) to recollect a certain Indian glitter 
of the eye and cast of feature. 

327 


SEPTIMIUS FELTON 

As for the Bloody Footstep, I saw it with 
my own eyes, and will venture to suggest that it 
was a mere natural reddish stain in the stone, 
converted by superstition into a Bloody Foot¬ 
step. 

328 


APPENDIX 

THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 
OUTLINES OF AN ENGLISH ROMANCE 
I 



PRIL I, 1858 , Thursday, — He had now been 


travelling long in those rich portions of Eng¬ 
land where he would most have wished to find 


the object of his pursuit; and many had been the scenes 
which he would willingly have identified with that 
mentioned in the ancient, time-yellowed record which 
he bore about with him. It is to be observed that, 
undertaken at first half as the amusement, the unreal 
object, of a grown man’s play day, it had become more 
and more real to him with every step of the way that 
he followed it up; along those green English lanes it 
seemed as if everything would bring him close to the 
mansion that he sought; every morning he went on 
with renewed hopes, nor did the evening, though it 
brought with it no success, bring with it the gloom and 
heaviness of a real disappointment. In all his life, 
including its earliest and happiest days, he had never 
known such a spring and zest as now filled his veins, 
and gave lightsomeness to his limbs; this spirit gave 
to the beautiful country which he trod a still richer 


329 


APPENDIX 


beauty than it had ever borne, and he sought his ancient 
home as if he had found his way into Paradise and were 
there endeavoring to trace out the sight [site] of Eve’s 
bridal bower, the birthplace of the human race and its 
glorious possibilities of happiness and high performance. 

In these sweet and delightful moods of mind, vary¬ 
ing from one dream to another, he loved indeed the 
solitude of his way; but likewise he loved the facility 
which his pursuit afforded him, of coming in contact 
with many varieties of men, and he took advantage 
of this facility to an extent which it was not usually 
his impulse to do. But now he came forth from all 
reserves, and offered himself to whomever the chances 
of the way offered to him, with a ready sensibility that 
made its way through every barrier that even English 
exclusiveness, in whatever rank of life, could set up. 
The plastic character of Middleton was perhaps a va¬ 
riety of American nature only presenting itself under 
an individual form ; he could throw off the man of our 
day, and put on a ruder nature, but then it was with 
a certain fineness, that made this only [a] distinction 
between it and the central truth. He found less va¬ 
riety of form in the English character than he had been 
accustomed to see at home; but perhaps this was in 
consequence of the external nature of his acquaintance 
with it; for the view of one well accustomed to a peo¬ 
ple, and of a stranger to them, differs in this — that the 
latter sees the homogeneity, the one universal charac¬ 
ter, the groundwork of the whole, while the former 
sees a thousand little differences, which distinguish the 
individual men apart, to such a degree that they seem 
hardly to have any resemblance among themselves. 

330 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

But just at the period of his journey when we take 
him up, Middleton had been for two or three days the 
companion of an old man who interested him more 
than most of his wayside companions ; the more espe¬ 
cially as he seemed to be wandering without an object, 
or with such a dreamy object as that which led Mid¬ 
dleton’s own steps onward. He was a plain old man 
enough, but with a pale, strong-featured face and 
white hair, a certain picturesqueness and venerableness, 
which Middleton fancied might have befitted a richer 
garb than he now wore. In much of their conversa¬ 
tion, too, he was sensible that, though the stranger be¬ 
trayed no acquaintance with literature, nor seemed to 
have conversed with cultivated minds, yet the results 
of such acquaintance and converse were here. Mid¬ 
dleton was inclined to think him, however, an old 
man, one of those itinerants, such as Wordsworth re¬ 
presented in the Excursion, who smooth themselves 
by the attrition of the world and gain a knowledge 
equivalent to or better than that of books from the 
actual intellect of man awake and active around them. 

Often, during the short period since their compan¬ 
ionship originated, Middleton had felt impelled to dis¬ 
close to the old man the object of his journey, and 
the wild tale by which, after two hundred years, he 
had been blown as it were across the ocean, and drawn 
onward to commence this search. The old man’s or¬ 
dinary conversation was of a nature to draw forth such 
a confidence as this ; frequently turning on the tradi¬ 
tions of the wayside; the reminiscences that lingered 
on the battlefields of the Roses, or of the Parliament, 
like flowers nurtured by the blood of the slain, and pro- 

331 


APPENDIX 


longing their race through the centuries for the way^ 
farer to pluck them ; or the family histories of the cas¬ 
tles, manor houses, and seats which, of various epochs, 
had their park gates along the roadside and would be 
seen with dark gray towers or ancient gables, or more 
modern forms of architecture, rising up among clouds 
of ancient oaks. Middleton watched earnestly to see 
if, in any of these tales, there were circumstances re¬ 
sembling those striking and singular ones which he 
had borne so long in his memory, and on which he 
was now acting in so strange a manner; but [though] 
there was a good deal of variety of incident in them, 
there never was any combination of incidents having 
the peculiarity of this. 

“ I suppose,” said he to the old man, “ the settlers 
in my country may have carried away with them tra¬ 
ditions long since forgotten in this country, but which 
might have an interest and connection, and might even 
piece out the broken relics of family history, which 
have remained perhaps a mystery for hundreds of years. 
I can conceive, even, that this might be of impor¬ 
tance in settling the heirships of estates ; but which 
now, only the two insulated parts of the story being 
known, remain a riddle, although the solution of it is 
actually in the world, if only these two parts could be 
united across the sea, like the wires of an electric tele¬ 
graph.” 

“ It is an impressive idea,” said the old man. ‘‘ Do 
you know any such tradition as you have hinted at ? ” 

April ijth, —Middleton could not but wonder at 
the singular chance that had established him in such 
a place, and in such society, so strangely adapted 

332 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

to the purposes with which he had been wandering 
through England. He had come hither, hoping as it 
were to find the past still alive and in action ; and 
here it was so in this one only spot, and these few 
persons into the midst of whom he had suddenly been 
cast. With these reflections he looked forth from his 
window into the old-fashioned garden, and at the stone 
sundial, which had numbered all the hours—all the 
daylight and serene ones, at least — since his myste¬ 
rious ancestor left the country. And [is] this, then, 
he thought to himself, the establishment of which some 
rumor had been preserved? Was it here that the se¬ 
cret had its hiding place in the old coffer, in the cup¬ 
board, in the secret chamber, or whatever was indi¬ 
cated by the apparently idle words of the document 
which he had preserved? He still smiled at the idea, 
but it was with a pleasant, mysterious sense that his 
life had at last got out of the dusty real, and that strange¬ 
ness had mixed itself’up with his daily experience. 

With such feelings he prepared himself to go down 
to dinner with his host. He found him alone at table, 
which was placed in a dark old room modernized with 
every English comfort and the pleasant spectacle of a 
table set with the whitest of napery and the brightest 
of glass and china. The friendly old gentleman, as 
he had found him from the first, became doubly and 
trebly so in that position which brings out whatever 
warmth of heart an Englishman has, and gives it to 
him if he has none. The impressionable and sympa¬ 
thetic character of Middleton answered to the kind¬ 
ness of his host; and by the time the meal was con¬ 
cluded, the two were conversing with almost as much 

333 


APPENDIX 


zest and friendship as if they were similar in age, even 
fellow countrymen, and had known one another all 
their lifetime. Middleton’s secret, it may be sup¬ 
posed, came often to the tip of his tongue; but still 
he kept it within, from a natural repugnance to bring 
out the one romance of his life. The talk, however, 
necessarily ran much upon topics among which this 
one would have come in without any extra attempt to 
introduce it. 

This decay of old families,” said the Master, “ is 
much greater than would appear on the surface of 
things. We have such a reluctance to part with them, 
that we are content to see them continued by any fic¬ 
tion, through any indirections, rather than to dispense 
with old names. In your country, I suppose, there is 
no such reluctance ; you are willing that one genera¬ 
tion should blot out all that preceded it, and be itself 
the newest and only age of the world.” 

‘‘ Not quite so,” answered Middleton ; ‘‘ at any rate, 
if there be such a feeling in the people at large, I doubt 
whether, even in England, those who fancy themselves 
possessed of claims to birth, cherish them more as a 
treasure than we do. It is, of course, a thousand times 
more difficult for us to keep alive a name amid a thou¬ 
sand difficulties sedulously thrown around it by our in¬ 
stitutions, than for you to do, where your institutions 
are anxiously calculated to promote the contrary pur¬ 
pose. It has occasionally struck me, however, that the 
ancient lineage might often be found in America, for 
a family which has been compelled to prolong itself 
here through the female line, and through alien stocks.” 

“Indeed, my young friend,” said the Master, “if 

334 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


that be the case, I should like to [speak?] further 
with you upon it; for, I can assure you, there are 
sometimes vicissitudes in old families that make me 
grieve to think that a man cannot be made for the oc¬ 
casion.” 

All this while, the young lady at table had remained 
almost silent; and Middleton had only occasionally 
been reminded of her by the necessity of performing 
some of those offices which put people at table under 
a Christian necessity of recognizing one another. He 
was, to say the truth, somewhat interested in her, yet 
not strongly attracted by the neutral tint of her dress, 
and the neutral character of her manners. She did 
not seem to be handsome, although, with her face full 
before him, he had not quite made up his mind on 
this point. 

April iph, — So here was Middleton, now at length 
seeing indistinctly a thread, to which the thread that 
he had so long held in his hand — the hereditary thread 
that ancestor after ancestor had handed down — might 
seem ready to join on. He felt as if they were the 
two points of an electric chain, which being joined, 
an instantaneous effect must follow. Earnestly, as he 
would have looked forward to this moment (had he 
in sober reason ever put any real weight on the fan¬ 
tasy in pursuit of which he had wandered so far) he 
now, that it actually appeared to be realizing itself, 
paused with a vague sensation of alarm. The mys¬ 
tery was evidently one of sorrow, if not of crime, and 
he felt as if that sorrow and crime might not have 
been annihilated even by being buried out’ of human 
sight and remembrance so long. He remembered to 

33f 


APPENDIX 


have heard or read, how that once an old pit had been 
dug open, in which were found the remains of persons 
that, as the shuddering bystanders traditionally re¬ 
membered, had died of an ancient pestilence; and out 
of that old grave had come a new plague, that slew 
the far-off progeny of those who had first died by it. 
Might not some fatal treasure like this, in a moral 
view, be brought to light by the secret into which he 
had so strangely been drawn ? Such were the fanta¬ 
sies with which he awaited the return of Alice, whose 
light footsteps sounded afar along the passages of the 
old mansion ; and then all was silent. 

At length he heard the sound, a great way off, as 
he concluded, of her returning footstep, approaching 
from chamber to chamber, and along the staircases, 
closing the doors behind her. At first, he paid no 
great attention to the character of these sounds, but as 
they drew nearer, he became aware that the footstep 
was unlike those of Alice ; indeed, as unlike as could 
be, very regular, slow, yet not firm, so that it seemed 
to be that of an aged person, sauntering listlessly 
through the rooms. We have often alluded to Mid¬ 
dleton’s sensitiveness, and the quick vibrations of his 
sympathies ; and there was something in this slow ap¬ 
proach that produced a strange feeling within him 5 
so that he stood breathlessly, looking towards the door 
by which these slow footsteps were to enter. At 
last, there appeared in the doorway a venerable figure, 
clad in a rich, faded dressing gown, and standing on 
the threshold looked fixedly at Middleton, at the same 
time holding up a light in his left hand. In his right 
was some object that Middleton did not distinctly see. 

336 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

But he knew the figure, and recognized the face. It 
was the old man, his long since companion on the 
journey hitherward. 

“ So,” said the old man, smiling gravely, “ you have 
thought fit, at last, to accept the hospitality which I 
offered you so long ago. It might have been better 
for both of us — for all parties — if you had accepted 
it then ! ” 

“ You here ! ” exclaimed Middleton. ‘‘ And what 
can be your connection with all the error and trouble, 
and involuntary wrong, through which I have wan¬ 
dered since our last meeting ? And is it possible that 
you even then held the clue which I was seeking ? ” 

“No, — no,” replied Rothermel. “ I was not con¬ 
scious, at least, of so doing. And yet had we two sat 
down there by the wayside, or on that English stile, 
which attracted your attention so much; had we sat 
down there and thrown forth each his own dream, each 
his own knowledge, it would have saved much that we 
must now forever regret. Are you even now ready to 
confide wholly in me ? ” 

“Alas,” said Middleton, with a darkening brow, 
“ there are many reasons, at this moment, which did 
not exist then, to incline me to hold my peace. And 
why has not Alice returned ? — and what is your con¬ 
nection with her ? ” 

“ Let her answer for herself,” said Rothermel; and 
he called her, shouting through the silent house as if 
she were at the furthest chamber, and he were in in¬ 
stant need : “ Alice ! — Alice ! — Alice ! — here is one 
who would know what is the link between a maiden 
and her father ! ” 


337 


APPENDIX 


Amid the strange uproar which he made Alice came 
flying back, not in alarm but only in haste, and put 
her hand within his own. “ Hush, father,” said she. 
‘‘ It is not time.” 

Here is an abstract of the plot of this story. The 
Middleton who emigrated to America, more than two 
hundred years ago, had been a dark and moody man; 
he came with a beautiful though not young woman for 
his wife, and left a family behind him. In this family 
a certain heirloom had been preserved, and with it a 
tradition that grew wilder and stranger with the pass¬ 
ing generations. The tradition had lost, if it ever had, 
some of its connecting links ; but it referred to a mur¬ 
der, to the expulsion of a brother from the hereditary 
house, in some strange way, and to a Bloody Footstep 
which he had left impressed into the threshold, as he 
turned about to make a last remonstrance. It was 
rumored, however, or vaguely understood, that the ex¬ 
pelled brother was not altogether an innocent man; but 
that there had been wrong done, as well as crime com¬ 
mitted, insomuch that his reasons were strong that led 
him, subsequently, to imbibe the most gloomy religious 
views, and to bury himself in the Western wilderness. 
These reasons he had never fully imparted to his 
family ; but had necessarily made allusions to them, 
which had been treasured up and doubtless enlarged 
upon. At last, one descendant of the family deter¬ 
mines to go to England, with the purpose of searching 
out whatever ground there may be for these traditions, 
carrying with him certain ancient documents, and other 
relics; and goes about the country, half in earnest, and 

338 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

half in sport of fancy, in quest of the old family man¬ 
sion. He makes singular discoveries, all of which bring 
the book to an end unexpected by everybody, and not 
satisfactory to the natural yearnings of novel-readers. 
In the traditions that he brought over, there was a 
key to some family secrets that were still unsolved, and 
that controlled the descent of estates and titles. His 
influence upon these matters involves [him] in divers 
strange and perilous adventures ; and at last it turns 
out that he himself is the rightful heir to the titles and 
estate, that had passed into another name within the 
last half-century. But he respects both, feeling that 
it is better to make a virgin soil than to try to make 
the old name grow in a soil that had been darkened 
with so much blood and misfortune as this. 

April 2jth^ Tuesday. — It was with a delightful 
feeling of release from ordinary rules, that Middleton 
found himself brought into this connection with Alice; 
and he only hoped that this playday of his life might 
last long enough to rest him from all that he had suf¬ 
fered. In the enjoyment of his position he almost for¬ 
got the pursuit that occupied him, nor might he have 
remembered for a long space if, one evening, Alice 
herself had not alluded to it. “ You are wasting pre¬ 
cious days,” she suddenly said. “ Why do not you 
renew your quest ? ” 

“To what do you allude ? ” said Middleton, in sur¬ 
prise. “ What object do you suppose me to have ? ” 

Alice smiled; nay, laughed outright. “You sup¬ 
pose yourself to be a perfect mystery, no doubt,” she 
replied. “ But do not I know you — have not I 
339 


APPENDIX 


known you long — as the holder of the talisman, the 
owner of the mysterious cabinet that contains the 
blood-stained secret ? ” 

“ Nay, Alice, this is certainly a strange coincidence, 
that you should know even thus much of a foolish 
secret that makes me employ this little holiday time, 
which I have stolen out of a weary life, in a wild- 
goose chase. But, believe me, you allude to matters 
that are more a mystery to me than my affairs appear 
to be to you. Will you explain what you would sug¬ 
gest by this badinage ? ” 

Alice shook her head. “You have no claim to 
know what I know, even if it would be any addition 
to your own knowledge. I shall not, and must not 
enlighten you. You must burrow for the secret with 
your own tools, in your own manner, and in a place 
of your own choosing. I am bound not to assist you.” 

“ Alice, this is wilful, wayward, unjust,” cried Mid¬ 
dleton, with a flushed cheek. “ I have not told you — 
yet you know well — the deep and real importance 
which this subject has for me. We have been together 
as friends, yet, the instant when there comes up an oc¬ 
casion when the slightest friendly feeling would induce 
you to do me a good office, you assume this altered 
tone.” 

“ My tone is not in the least altered in respect to 
you,” said Alice. “ All along, as you know, I have 
reserved myself on this very point; it being, I candidly 
tell you, impossible for me to act in your interest in 
the matter alluded to. If you choose to consider this 
unfriendly, as being less than the terms on which you 
conceive us to have stood give you a right to demand 

340 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


of me — you must resent it as you please. I shall not 
the less retain for you the regard due to one who has 
certainly befriended me in very untoward circum¬ 
stances.” 

This conversation confirmed the previous idea of 
Middleton, that some mystery of a peculiarly dark and 
evil character was connected with the family secret 
with which he was himself entangled; but it perplexed 
him to imagine in what way this, after the lapse of so 
many years, should continue to be a matter of real 
importance at the present day. All the actors in the 
original guilt—if guilt it were—must have been long 
ago in their graves; some in the churchyard of the 
village, with those moss-grown letters embossing their 
names ; some in the church itself, with mural tablets 
recording their names over the family pew, and one, it 
might be, far over the sea, where his grave was first 
made under the forest leaves, though now a city had 
grown up around it. Yet here was he, the remote de¬ 
scendant of that family, setting his foot at last in the 
country, and as secretly as might be; and all at once 
his mere presence seemed to revive the buried secret, 
almost to awake the dead who partook of that secret 
and had acted it. There was a vibration from the 
other world, continued and prolonged into this, the 
instant that he stepped upon the mysterious and haunted 
ground. 

He knew not in what way to proceed. He could 
not but feel that there was something not exactly 
within the limits of propriety in being here, disguised 
— at least, not known in his true character — prying 
into the secrets of a proud and secluded Englishman. 

341 


APPENDIX 


But then, as he said to himself on his own side of the 
question, the secret belonged to himself by exactly as 
ancient a tenure and by precisely as strong a claim, as 
to the Englishman. His rights here were just as pow¬ 
erful and well founded as those of his ancestor had 
been, nearly three centuries ago; and here the same 
feeling came over him that he was that very personage, 
returned after all these ages, to see if his foot would 
fit this bloody footstep left of old upon the threshold. 
The result of all his cogitation was, as the reader will 
have foreseen, that he decided to continue his re¬ 
searches, and, his proceedings being pretty defensible, 
let the result take care of itself. 

For this purpose he went next day to the hospital, 
and ringing at the Master’s door, was ushered into the 
old-fashioned, comfortable library, where he had spent 
that well-remembered evening which threw the first 
ray of light on the pursuit that now seemed developing 
into such strange and unexpected consequences. Be¬ 
ing admitted, he was desired by the domestic to wait, 
as his Reverence was at that moment engaged with a 
gentleman on business. Glancing through the ivy 
that mantled over the window, Middleton saw that this 
interview was taking place in the garden, where the 
Master and his visitor were walking to and fro in the 
^ avenue of box, discussing some matter, as it seemed to 
him, with considerable earnestness on both sides. He 
observed, too, that there was warmth, passion, a dis¬ 
turbed feeling on the stranger’s part; while, on that 
of the Master, it was a calm, serious, earnest repre¬ 
sentation of whatever view he was endeavoring to im¬ 
press on the other. At last, the interview appeared 
342 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


to come toward a climax, the Master addressing some 
words to his guest, still with undisturbed calmness, to 
which the latter replied by a violent and even fierce 
gesture, as it should seem of menace, not towards the 
Master, but some unknown party; and then hastily 
turning, he left the garden and was soon heard riding 
away. The Master looked after him awhile, and then, 
shaking his white head, returned into the house and 
soon entered the parlor. 

He looked somewhat surprised, and, as it struck 
Middleton, a little startled, at finding him there; yet 
he welcomed him with all his former cordiality — in¬ 
deed, with a friendship that thoroughly warmed Mid¬ 
dleton’s heart even to its coldest corner. 

“ This is strange ! ” said the old gentleman. “ Do 
you remember our conversation on that evening when 
I first had the unlooked-for pleasure of receiving you 
as a guest into my house ? At that time I spoke to 
you of a strange family story, of which there was no 
denouement, such as a novel-writer would desire, and 
which had remained in that unfinished posture for more 
than two hundred years ! Well; perhaps it will grat¬ 
ify you to know that there seems a prospect of that 
wanting termination being supplied ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Middleton. 

“ Yes,” replied the Master. ‘‘ A gentleman has just 
parted with me who was indeed the representative of 
the family concerned in the story. He is the descend¬ 
ant of a younger son of that family, to whom the es¬ 
tate devolved about a century ago, although at that 
time there was search for the heirs of the elder son, 
who had disappeared after the bloody incident which I 

343 


APPENDIX 


related to you. Now, singular as it may appear, at 
this late day, a person claiming to be the descendant 
and heir of that eldest son has appeared, and, if I may 
credit my friend’s account, is disposed not only to claim 
the estate, but the dormant title which Eldredge him¬ 
self has been so long preparing to claim for himself. 
Singularly enough, too, the heir is an American.” 

May 2d^ Sunday, — “I believe,” said Middleton, 
“ that many English secrets might find their solution 
in America, if the two threads of a story could be 
brought together, disjoined as they have been by time 
and the ocean. But are you at liberty to tell me the 
nature of the incidents to which you allude ? ” 

“ I do not see any reason to the contrary,” answered 
the Master; “ for the story has already come in an 
imperfect way before the public, and the full and au¬ 
thentic particulars are likely soon to follow. It seems 
that the younger brother was ejected from the house 
on account of a love affair; the elder having married 
a young woman with whom the younger was in love, 
and, it is said, the wife disappeared on the bridal night, 
and was never heard of more. The elder brother re¬ 
mained single during the rest of his life; and dying 
childless, and there being still no news of the second 
brother, the inheritance and representation of the fam¬ 
ily devolved upon the third brother and his posterity. 
This branch of the family has ever since remained in 
possession; and latterly the representation has become 
of more importance, on account of a claim to an old 
title, which, by the failure of another branch of this 
ancient family, has devolved upon the branch here set¬ 
tled. Now, just at this juncture, comes another heir 
344 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

from America, pretending that he is the descendant of 
a marriage between the second son, supposed to have 
been murdered on the threshold of the manor house, 
and the missing bride! Is it not a singular story ? 

‘‘ It would seem to require very strong evidence to 
prove it,” said Middleton. ‘‘ And methinks a Repub¬ 
lican should care little for the title, however he might 
value the estate.” 

“ Both — both,” said the Master, smiling, “ would 
be equally attractive to your countryman. But there 
are further curious particulars in connection with this 
claim. You must know, they are a family of singular 
characteristics, humorists, sometimes developing their 
queer traits into something like insanity ; though of- 
tener, I must say, spending stupid hereditary lives here 
on their estates, rusting out and dying without leaving 
any biography whatever about them. And yet there 
has always been one very queer thing about this gen¬ 
erally very commonplace family. It is that each father, 
on his deathbed, has had an interview with his son, at 
which he has imparted some secret that has evidently 
had an influence on the character and after life of the 
son, making him ever after a discontented man, aspir¬ 
ing for something he has never been able to find. Now 
the American, I am told, pretends that he has the clue 
which has always been needed to make the secret avail¬ 
able; the key whereby the lock may be opened; the 
something that the lost son of the family carried away 
with him, and by which through these centuries he has 
impeded the progress of the race. And, wild as the 
story seems, he does certainly seem to bring something 
that looks very like the proof of what he says.” 


APPENDIX 


“ And what are those proofs ? ” inquired Middleton, 
wonder-stricken at the strange reduplication of his own 
position and pursuits. 

“ In the first place,” said the Master, “the English 
marriage certificate by a clergyman of that day in Lon¬ 
don, after publication of the banns, with a reference 
to the register of the parish church where the marriage 
is recorded. Then, a certified genealogy of the family 
in New England, where such matters can be ascer¬ 
tained from town and church records, with at least as 
much certainty, it would appear, as in this country. 
He has likewise a manuscript in his ancestor’s auto¬ 
graph, containing a brief account of the events which 
banished him from his own country; the circumstances 
which favored the idea that he had been slain, and 
which he himself was willing should be received as a 
belief; the fortune that led him to America, where he 
wished to found a new race wholly disconnected with 
the past; and this manuscript he sealed up, with di¬ 
rections that it should not be opened till two hundred 
years after his death, by which time, as it was probable 
to conjecture, it would matter little to any mortal 
whether the story was told or not. A whole genera¬ 
tion has passed since the time when the paper was at 
last unsealed and read, so long it had no operation ; yet 
now, at last, here comes the American, to disturb the 
succession of an ancient family ! ” 

“ There is something very strange in all this,” said 
Middleton. 

And indeed there was something stranger in his view 
of the matter than he had yet communicated to the 
Master. For, taking into consideration the relation 

346 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

in which he found himself with the present recognized 
representative of the family, the thought struck him 
that his coming hither had dug up, as it were, a buried 
secret that immediately assumed life and activity the 
moment that it was above ground again. For seven 
generations the family had vegetated in the quietude 
of English country gentility, doing nothing to make 
itself known, passing from the cradle to the tomb amid 
the same old woods that had waved over it before his 
ancestor had impressed the bloody footstep; and yet 
the instant that he came back, an influence seemed to 
be at work that was likely to renew the old history of 
the family. He questioned with himself whether it 
were not better to leave all as it was; to withdraw 
himself into the secrecy from which he had but half 
emerged, and leave the family to keep on, to the end 
of time perhaps, in its rusty innocence, rather than to 
interfere with his wild American character to disturb 
it. The smell of that dark crime — that brotherly 
hatred and attempted murder — seemed to breathe out 
of the ground as he dug it up. Was it not better that 
it should remain forever buried, for what to him was 
this old English title — what this estate, so far from 
his own native land, located amidst feelings and man¬ 
ners which would never be his own ? It was late, to 
be sure — yet not too late for him to turn back: the 
vibration, the fear, which his footsteps had caused, 
would subside into peace! Meditating in this way, 
he took a hasty leave of the kind old Master, promis¬ 
ing to see him again at an early opportunity. By 
chance, or however it was, his footsteps turned to the 

woods of-Chace, and there he wandered through 

347 


APPENDIX 


its glades, deep in thought, yet always with a strange 
sense that he was treading on the soil where his ances¬ 
tors had trodden, and where he himself had best right 
of all men to be. It was just in this state of feeling 
that he found his course arrested by a hand upon his 
shoulder. 

“ What business have you here ? ’’ was the question 
sounded in his ear; and, starting, he found himself in 
the grasp, as his blood tingled to know, of a gentleman 
in a shooting dress, who looked at him with a wrath¬ 
ful brow. “ Are you a poacher, or what ? ” 

Be the case what it might, Middleton’s blood boiled 
at the grasp of that hand, as it never before had done 
in the course of his impulsive life. He shook himself 
free, and stood fiercely before his antagonist, confront¬ 
ing him with his uplifted stick, while the other, like¬ 
wise, appeared to be shaken by a strange wrath. 

“ Fellow,” muttered he — “Yankee blackguard ! — 
impostor —take yourself off these grounds. Quick, 
or it will be the worse for you! ” 

Middleton restrained himself. “ Mr. Eldredge,” 
said he, “ for I believe I speak to the man who calls 
himself owner of this land on which we stand, — Mr. 
Eldredge, you are acting under a strange misapprehen¬ 
sion of my character. I have come hither with no 
sinister purpose, and am entitled, at the hands of a gen¬ 
tleman, to the consideration of an honorable antago¬ 
nist, even if you deem me one at all. And perhaps, 
if you think upon the blue chamber and the ebony 
cabinet, and the secret connected with it ” — 

“ Villain, no more! ” said Eldredge; and utterly 
mad with rage, he presented his gun at Middleton ; but 

348 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

even at the moment of doing so, he partly restrained 
himself, so far as, instead of shooting him, to raise the 
butt of his gun, and strike a blow at him. It came 
down heavily on Middleton’s shoulder, though aimed 
at his head; and the blow was terribly avenged, even 
by itself, for the jar caused the hammer to come down; 
the gun went off, sending the bullet downwards through 
the heart of the unfortunate man, who fell dead upon 
the ground. Eldredge^ stood stupefied, looking at the 
catastrophe which had so suddenly occurred. 

May Monday^ — So here was the secret suddenly 
made safe in this so terrible way; its keepers reduced 
from two parties to one interest; the other who alone 
knew of this age-long mystery and trouble now carry¬ 
ing it into eternity, where a long line of those who 
partook of the knowledge, in each successive genera¬ 
tion, might now be waiting to inquire of him how he 
had held his trust. He had kept it well, there was no 
doubt of it; for there he lay dead upon the ground, 
having betrayed it to no one, though by a method 
which none could have foreseen, the whole had come 
into the possession of him who had brought hither but 
half of it. Middleton looked down in horror upon 
the form that had just been so full of life and wrathful 
vigor—and now lay so quietly. Being wholly uncon¬ 
scious of any purpose to bring about the catastrophe, 
it had not at first struck him that his own position 
was in any manner affected by the violent death, under 
such circumstances, of the unfortunate man. But now 
it suddenly occurred to him, that there had been a 
train of incidents all calculated to make him the ob- 


1' Evidently a slip of the pen; Middleton being intended. 

349 


APPENDIX 


ject of suspicion; and he felt that he could not, under 
the English administration of law, be suffered to go at 
large without rendering a strict account of himself and 
his relations with the deceased. He might, indeed, fly; 
he might still remain in the vicinity, and possibly es¬ 
cape notice. But was not the risk too great ? Was 
it just even to be aware of this event, and not relate 
fully the manner of it, lest a suspicion of blood-guilt¬ 
iness should rest upon some innocent head? But 
while he was thus cogitating, he heard footsteps ap¬ 
proaching along the wood path; and half impulsively, 
half on purpose, he stept aside into the shrubbery, but 
still where he could see the dead body, and what 
passed near it. 

The footsteps came on, and at the turning of the 
path, just where Middleton had met Eldredge, the new¬ 
comer appeared in sight. It was Hopcr, in his usual 
dress of velveteen, looking now seedy, poverty-stricken, 
and altogether in ill case, trudging moodily along, with 
his hat pulled over his brows, so that he did not see 
the ghastly object before him till his foot absolutely 
trod upon the dead man’s hand. Being thus made 
aware of the proximity of the corpse, he started back 
a little, yet evincing such small emotion as did credit 
to his English reserve; then uttering a low exclama¬ 
tion,— cautiously low, indeed, — he stood looking at 
the corpse a moment or two, apparently in deep medi¬ 
tation. He then drew near, bent down, and without 
evincing any horror at the touch of death in this horrid 
shape, he opened the dead man’s vest, inspected the 
wound, satisfied himself that life was extinct, and then 
nodded his head and smiled gravely. He next pro- 
350 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


ceeded to examine seriatim the dead man’s pockets, 
turning each of them inside out and taking the con¬ 
tents, where they appeared adapted to his needs: for 
instance, a silken purse, through the interstices of 
which some gold was visible ; a watch, which how¬ 
ever had been injured by the explosion, and had stopt 
just at the moment — twenty-one minutes past five 
— when the catastrophe took place. Hoper ascer¬ 
tained, by putting the watch to his ear, that this was 
the case; then pocketing it, he continued his researches. 
He likewise secured a notebook, on examining which 
he found several bank notes, and some other papers. 
And having done this, the thief stood considering what 
to do next; nothing better occurring to him, he thrust 
the pockets back, gave the corpse as nearly as he could 
the same appearance that k had worn before he found 
it, and hastened away, leaving the horror there on 
the wood path. 

He had been gone only a few minutes when another 
step, a light woman’s step, [was heard] coming along 
the pathway, and Alice appeared, having on her usual 
white mantle, straying along with that fearlessness 
which characterized her so strangely, and made her 
seem like one of the denizens of nature. She was 
singing in a low tone some one of those airs which 
have become so popular in England, as negro melodies; 
when suddenly, looking before her, she saw the blood¬ 
stained body on the grass, the face looking ghastly up¬ 
ward. Alice pressed her hand upon her heart; it was 
not her habit to scream, not the habit of that strong, 
wild, self-dependent nature; and the exclamation which 
broke from her was not for help, but the voice of her 

351 


APPENDIX 


heart crying out to herself. For an instant she hesi¬ 
tated, as [if] not knowing what to do; then approached, 
and with her white, maiden hand felt the brow of the 
dead man, tremblingly, but yet firm, and satisfied her¬ 
self that life had wholly departed. She pressed her 
hand, that had just touched the dead man’s, on her 
forehead, and gave a moment to thought. 

What her decision might have been, we cannot say, 
for while she stood in this attitude, Middleton stept 
from his seclusion, and at the noise of his approach 
she turned suddenly round, looking more frightened 
and agitated than at the moment when she had first 
seen the dead body. She faced Middleton, however, 
and looked him quietly in the eye. “ You see this ! ” 
said she, gazing fixedly at him. “ It is not at this 
moment that you first discover it.” 

“ No,” said Middleton frankly. “ It is not. I was 
present at the catastrophe. In one sense, indeed, I 
was the cause of it; but, Alice, I need not tell you 
that I am no murderer.” 

“A murderer? — no,” said Alice, still looking at 
him with the same fixed gaze. “ But you and this 
man were at deadly variance. He would have rejoiced 
at any chance that would have laid you cold and bloody 
on the earth, as he is now; nay, he would most eagerly 
have seized on any fair-looking pretext that would have 
given him a chance to stretch you there. The world 
will scarcely believe, when it knows all about your re¬ 
lations with him, that his blood is not on your hand. 
Indeed,” said she, with a strange smile, “ I see some 
of it there now ! ” 

And, in very truth, so there was; a broad blood- 

352 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


stain that had dried on Middleton’s hand. He shud¬ 
dered at it, but essayed vainly to rub it off. 

“ You see,” said she. “ It was foreordained that 
you should shed this man’s blood; foreordained that, 
by digging into that old pit of pestilence, you should 
set the contagion loose again. You should have left 
it buried forever. But now what do you mean to do ? ” 

“To proclaim this catastrophe,” replied Middleton. 
“ It is the only honest and manly way. What else 
can I do ? ” 

“You can and ought to leave him on the wood 
path, where he has fallen,” said Alice, “ and go your¬ 
self to take advantage of the state of things which 
Providence has brought about. Enter the old house, 
the hereditary house, where — now, at least — you 
alone have a right to tread. Now is the hour. All is 
within your grasp. Let the wrong of three hundred 
years be righted, and come back thus to your own, to 
these hereditary fields, this quiet, long-descended home; 
to title, to honor.” 

Yet as the wild maiden spoke thus, there was a sort 
of mockery in her eyes; on her brow; gleaming 
through all her face, as if she scorned what she thus 
pressed upon him, the spoils of the dead man who lay 
at their feet. Middleton, with his susceptibility, could 
not [but] be sensible of a wild and strange charm, as 
well as horror, in the situation ; it seemed such a won¬ 
der that here, in formal, orderly, well-governed Eng¬ 
land, so wild a scene as this should have occurred 
that they too [two ?] should stand here, deciding on 
the descent of an estate, and the inheritance of a title, 
holding a court of their own. 

353 


APPENDIX 


“ Come, then,” said he, at length. “ Let us leave 
this poor fallen antagonist in his blood, and go whither 
you will lead me. I will judge for myself. At all 
events, I will not leave my hereditary home without 
knowing what my power is.” 

“ Come,” responded Alice; and she turned back) 
but then returned and threw a handkerchief over the 
dead man’s face, which while they spoke had assumed 
that quiet, ecstatic expression of joy which often is 
observed to overspread the faces of those who die of 
gunshot wounds, however fierce the passion in which 
the spirits took their flight. With this strange, grand, 
awful joy did the dead man gaze upward into the very 
eyes and hearts, as it were, of the two that now bent 
over him. They looked at one another. 

“ Whence comes this expression ? ” said Middleton 
thoughtfully. “ Alice, methinks he is reconciled to 
us now; and that we are members of one reconciled 
family, all of whom are in heaven but me.” 

Tuesday^ May ph ,—“How strange is this whole 
situation between you and me,” said Middleton, as they 
went up the winding pathway that led towards the 
house. “ Shall I ever understand it ? Do you mean 
ever to explain it to me ? That I should find you 
here with that old man,^ so mysterious, apparently 

1 The allusion here is apparently to the old man who proclaims himself 
Alice’s fether, in the portion dated April 14 th. He figures hereafter as the 
old Hospitaller, Hammond. The reader must not take this present passage 
as referring to the death of Eldredge, which has just taken place in the pre¬ 
ceding section. The author is now beginning to elaborate the relation of 
Middleton and Alice. As will be seen, farther on, the death of Eldredge 
is ignored and abandoned j Eldredge is revived, and the story proceeds in an¬ 
other way. — G. P. L. 


354 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

so poor, yet so powerful ! What [is] his relation to 
you?” 

“ A close one,” replied Alice sadly. He was my 
father ! ” 

“ Your father ! ” repeated Middleton, starting back. 
“ It does but heighten the wonder! Your father! And 
yet, by all the tokens that birth and breeding, and habits 
of thought and native character can show, you are my 
countrywoman. That wild, free spirit was never born 
in the breast of an Englishwoman ; that slight frame, 
that slender beauty, that frail envelopment of a quick, 
piercing, yet stubborn and patient spirit, — are those 
the properties of an English maiden ? ” 

“ Perhaps not,” replied Alice quietly. “ I am your 
countrywoman. My father was an American, and one 
of whom you have heard — and no good, alas ! — for 
many a year.” 

“ And who then was he ? ” asked Middleton. 

“ I know not whether you will hate me for telling 
you,” replied Alice, looking him sadly though firmly 
in the face. “ There was a man — long years since, 
in your childhood — whose plotting brain proved the 
ruin of himself and many another; a man whose great 
designs made him a sort of potentate, whose schemes 
became of national importance, and produced results 
even upon the history of the country in which he 
acted. That man was my father; a man who sought 
to do great things, and, like many who have had sim¬ 
ilar aims, disregarded many small rights, strode over 
them, on his way to effect a gigantic purpose. Among 
other men, your father was trampled under foot, ruined, 
done to death, even, by the effects of his ambition.” 
355 


APPENDIX 


“ How is it possible! ” exclaimed Middleton. ‘‘Was 
it Wentworth ? ’’ 

“ Even so,” said Alice, still with the same sad calm¬ 
ness and not withdrawing her steady eyes from his 
face. “ After his ruin; after the catastrophe that over¬ 
whelmed him and hundreds more, he took to flight; 
guilty, perhaps, but guilty as a fallen conqueror is; 
guilty to such an extent that he ceased to be a cheat, 
as a conqueror ceases to be a murderer. He came to 
England. My father had an original nobility of nature; 
and his life had not been such as to debase it, but 
rather such as to cherish and heighten that self-esteem 
which at least keeps the possessor of it from many 
meaner vices. He took nothing with him; nothing 
beyond the bare means of flight, with the world before 
him, although thousands of gold would not have been 
missed out of the scattered fragments of ruin that lay 
around him. He found his way hither, led, as you 
were, by a desire to reconnect himself with the place 
whence his family had originated ; for he, too, was of 
a race which had something to do with the ancient 
story which has now been brought to a close. Arrived 
here, there were circumstances that chanced to make 
his talents and habits of business available to this Mr. 
Eldredge, a man ignorant and indolent, unknowing how 
to make the best of the property that was in his hands. 
By degrees, he took the estate into his management, 
acquiring necessarily a preponderating influence over 
such a man.” 

“ And you,” said Middleton. “ Have you been all 
along in England ? For you must have been little more 
than an infant at the time.” 

356 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


‘‘ A mere infant,” said Alice, “ and I remained in 
our own country under the care of a relative who left 
me much to my own keeping; much to the influences 
of that wild culture which the freedom of our country 
gives to its youth. It is only two years that I have 
been in England.” 

“ This, then,” said Middleton thoughtfully, “ ac¬ 
counts for much that has seemed so strange in the 
events through which we have passed; for the know¬ 
ledge of my identity and my half-defined purpose which 
has always glided before me, and thrown so many 
strange shapes of difficulty in my path. But whence, 
— whence came that malevolence which your father’s 
conduct has so unmistakably shown ? I had done him 
no injury, though I had suffered much.” 

“ I have often thought,” replied Alice, “ that my 
father, though retaining a preternatural strength and 
acuteness of intellect, was really not altogether sane. 
And, besides, he had made it his business to keep this 
estate, and all the complicated advantages of the repre¬ 
sentation of this old family, secure to the person who 
was deemed to have inherited them. A succession of 
ages and generations might be supposed to have blotted 
out your claims from existence; for it is not just that 
there should be no term of time which can make 
security for lack of fact and a few formalities. At all 
events, he had satisfied himself that his duty was to 
act as he has done.” 

“ Be it so ! I do not seek to throw blame on him,” 
said Middleton. “ Besides, Alice, he was your father! ” 

“Yes,” said she, sadly smiling; “let him [have] 
what protection that thought may give him, even 

357 


APPENDIX 


though I lose what he may gain. And now here we 
are at the house. At last, come in ! It is your own j 
there is none that can longer forbid you! ” 

They entered the door of the old mansion, now a 
farmhouse, and there were its old hall, its old chambers, 
all before them. They ascended the staircase, and 
stood on the landing place above ; while Middleton 
had again that feeling that had so often made him 
dizzy,— that sense of being in one dream and recog¬ 
nizing the scenery and events of a former dream. So 
overpowering was this feeling, that he laid his hand 
on the slender arm of Alice, to steady himself j and 
she comprehended the emotion that agitated him, and 
looked into his eyes with a tender sympathy, which 
she had never before permitted to be visible, — per¬ 
haps never before felt. He steadied himself and fol¬ 
lowed her till they had entered an ancient chamber, but 
one that was finished with all the comfortable luxury 
customary to be seen in English homes. 

“ Whither have you led me now ? ” inquired Mid¬ 
dleton. 

“ Look round,” said Alice. “ Is there nothing here 
that you ought to recognize ? — nothing that you kept 
the memory of, long ago ? ” 

He looked round the room again and again, and at 
last, in a somewhat shadowy corner, he espied an old 
cabinet made of ebony and inlaid with pearl; one of 
those tall, stately, and elaborate pieces of furniture that 
are rather articles of architecture than upholstery; and 
on which a higher skill, feeling, and genius than now 
is ever employed on such things, was expended. Alice 
drew near the stately cabinet and threw wide the doors, 
358 




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THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


which, like the portals of a palace, stood between two 
pillars j it all seemed to be unlocked, showing within 
some beautiful old pictures in the panel of the doors, 
and a mirror, that opened a long succession of mimic 
halls, reflection upon reflection, extending to an in¬ 
terminable nowhere. 

“ And what is this ? ” said Middleton, — “a cabi¬ 
net ? Why do you draw my attention so strongly to 
it ? ” 

‘‘ Look at it well,” said she. “ Do you recognize 
nothing there ? Have you forgotten your description ? 
The stately palace with its architecture, each pillar 
with its architecture, those pilasters, that frieze; you 
ought to know them all. Somewhat less than you 
imagined in size, perhaps ; a fairy reality, inches for 
yards; that is the only difference. And you have the 
key ? ” 

And there then was that palace, to which tradition, 
so false at once and true, had given such magnitude and 
magnificence in the traditions of the Middleton family, 
around their shifting fireside in America. Looming 
afar through the mists of time, the little fact had be¬ 
come a gigantic vision. Yes, here it was in minia¬ 
ture, all that he had dreamed of; a palace of four feet 
high! 

“ You have the key of this palace,” said Alice; “it 
has waited — that is, its secret and precious chamber 
has, for you to open it, these three hundred years. Do 
you know how to find that secret chamber ? ” 

Middleton, still in that dreamy mood, threw open an 
inner door of the cabinet, and applying the old-fashioned 
key at his watch chain to a hole in the mimic pavement 
359 


APPENDIX 


within, pressed one of the mosaics, and immediately the 
whole floor of the apartment sank, and revealed a re¬ 
ceptacle within. Alice had come forward eagerly, and 
they both looked into the hiding place, expecting what 
should be there. It was empty ! They looked into 
each other’s faces with blank astonishment. Every¬ 
thing had been so strangely true, and so strangely false, 
up to this moment, that they could not comprehend 
this failure at the last moment. It was the strangest, 
saddest jest! It brought Middleton up with such a sud¬ 
den revulsion that he grew dizzy, and the room swam 
round him and the cabinet dazzled before his eyes. It 
had been magnified to a palace; it had dwindled down 
to Lilliputian size; and yet, up till now, it had seemed 
to contain in its diminutiveness all the riches which he 
had attributed to its magnitude. This last moment had 
utterly subverted it; the whole great structure seemed 
to vanish. 

“ See; here are the dust and ashes of it,” observed 
Alice, taking something that was indeed only a pinch 
of dust out of the secret compartment. “ There is 
nothing else.” 


II 

May Wednesday, — The father of these two 

sons, an aged man at the time, took much to heart 
their enmity; and after the catastrophe, he never held 
up his head again. He was not told that his son had 
perished, though such was the belief of the family ; but 
imbibed the opinion that he had left his home and na¬ 
tive land to become a wanderer on the face of the earth, 
360 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

and that some time or other he might return. In this 
idea he spent the remainder of his days; in this idea he 
died. It may be that the influence of this idea might 
be traced in the way in which he spent some of the 
latter years of his life, and a portion of the wealth 
which had become of little value in his eyes, since it 
had caused dissension and bloodshed between the sons 
of one household. It was a common mode of charity 
in those days — a common thing for rich men to do — 
to found an almshouse or a hospital, and endow it, for 
the support of a certain number of old and destitute 
men or women, generally such as had some claim of 
blood upon the founder, or at least were natives of the 
parish, the district, the county, where he dwelt. The 
Eldredge Hospital was founded for the benefit of twelve 
old men, who should have been wanderers upon the 
face of the earth; men, they should be, of som©^ edu¬ 
cation, but defeated and hopeless, cast off by the world 
for misfortune, but not for crime. And this charity 
had subsisted, on terms varying little or nothing from 
the original ones, from that day to this; and, at this 
very time, twelve old men were not wanting, of vari¬ 
ous countries, of various fortunes, but all ending finally 
in ruin, who had centred here, to live on the poor pit¬ 
tance that had been assigned to them, three hundred 
years ago. What a series of chronicles it would have 
been if each of the beneficiaries of this charity, since 
its foundation, had left a record of the events which 
finally led him hither. Middleton often, as he talked 
with these old men, regretted that he himself had no 
turn for authorship, so rich a volume might he have 
compiled from the experience, sometimes sunny and 
361 


APPENDIX 


triumphant, though always ending in shadow, which 
he gathered here. They were glad to talk to him, and 
would have been glad and grateful for any auditor, as 
they sat on one or another of the stone benches, in the 
sunshine of the garden; or at evening, around the great 
fireside, or within the chimney corner, with their pipes 
^nd ale. 

There was one old man who attracted much of his 
attention, by the venerableness of his aspect; by some¬ 
thing dignified, almost haughty and commanding, in 
his air. Whatever might have been the intentions and 
expectations of the founder, it certainly had happened 
in these latter days that there was a difficulty in find¬ 
ing persons of education, of good manners, of evident 
respectability, to put into the places made vacant by 
deaths of members; whether that the paths of life are 
surer now than they used to be, and that men so ar¬ 
range their lives as not to be left, in any event, quite 
without resources as they draw near its close; at any 
rate, there was a little tincture of the vagabond run¬ 
ning through these twelve quasi gentlemen, — through 
several of them, at least. But this old man could not 
well be mistaken; in his manners, in his tones, in all 
his natural language and deportment, there was evi¬ 
dence that he had been more than respectable ; and, 
viewing him, Middleton could not help wondering what 
statesman had suddenly vanished out of public life and 
taken refuge here, for his head was of the statesman 
class, and his demeanor that of one who had exercised 
influence over large numbers of men. He sometimes 
endeavored to set on foot a familiar relation with this 
old man, but there was even a sternness in the manner 
362 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


in which he repelled these advances, that gave little 
encouragement for their renewal. Nor did it seem 
that his companions of the Hospital were more in his 
confidence than Middleton himself. They regarded 
him with a kind of awe, a shyness, and in most cases 
with a certain dislike, which denoted an imperfect un¬ 
derstanding of him. To say the truth, there was not 
generally much love lost between any of the members 
of this family ; they had met with too much disap¬ 
pointment in the world to take kindly, now, to one 
another or to anything or anybody. I rather suspect 
that they really had more pleasure in burying one an¬ 
other, when the time came, than in any other office of 
mutual kindness and brotherly love which it was their 
part to do ; not out of hardness of heart, but merely 
from soured temper, and because, when people have 
met disappointment and have settled down into^final 
unhappiness, with no more gush and spring of good 
spirits, there is nothing any more to create amiability 
out of. 

So the old people were unamiable and cross to one 
another, and unamiable and cross to old Hammond, 
yet always with a certain respect; and the result seemed 
to be such as treated the old man well enough. And 
thus he moved about among them, a mystery; the his¬ 
tories of the others, in the general outline, were well 
enough known, and perhaps not very uncommon ; 
this old man’s history was known to none, except, of 
course, to the trustees of the charity, and to the Mas¬ 
ter of the Hospital, to whom it had necessarily been 
revealed, before the beneficiary could be admitted as 
an inmate. It was judged, by the deportment of the 

363 


APPENDIX 


Master, that the old man had once held some emi¬ 
nent position in society; for, though bound to treat 
them all as gentlemen, he was thought to show an 
especial and solemn courtesy to Hammond. 

Yet by the attraction which two strong and culti¬ 
vated minds inevitably have for one another, there did 
spring up an acquaintanceship, an intercourse, be¬ 
tween Middleton and this old man, which was fol¬ 
lowed up in many a conversation which they held to¬ 
gether on all subjects that were supplied by the news 
of the day, or the history of the past. Middleton 
used to make the newspaper the opening for much dis¬ 
cussion; and it seemed to him that the talk of his 
companion had much of the character of that of a re¬ 
tired statesman, on matters which, perhaps, he would 
look at all the more wisely, because it was impossible 
he could ever more have a personal agency in them. 
Their discussions sometimes turned upon the affairs of 
his own country, and its relations with the rest of the 
world, especially with England; and Middleton could 
not help being struck with the accuracy of the old 
man’s knowledge respecting that country, which so 
few Englishmen know anything about; his shrewd 
appreciation of the American character, — shrewd and 
caustic, yet not without a good degree of justice; the 
sagacity of his remarks on the past, and prophecies of 
what was likely to happen, — prophecies which, in one 
instance, were singularly verified, in regard to a com¬ 
plexity which was then arresting the attention of both 
countries. 

“You must have been in the United States,” said 
he, one day. 

364 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


“ CcFtainly; my remarks imply personal know¬ 
ledge,” was the reply. “ But it was before the days 
of steam.” 

“ And not, I should imagine, for a brief visit,” said 
Middleton. “ I only wish the administration of this 
government had the benefit to-day of your knowledge 
of my countrymen. It might be better for both of 
these kindred nations.” 

“ Not a whit,” said the old man. ‘‘ England will 
never understand America; for England never does 
understand a foreign country; and whatever you may 
say about kindred, America is as much a foreign coun¬ 
try as France itself. These two hundred years of a 
different climate and circumstances — of life on a 
broad continent instead of in an island, to say nothing 
of the endless intermixture of nationalities in every 
part of the United States, except New England -~ 
have created a new and decidedly original type of 
national character. It is as well for both parties that 
they should not aim at any very intimate connection. 
It will never do.” 

“ I should be sorry to think so,” said Middleton; 
“ they are at all events two noble breeds of men, and 
ought to appreciate one another. And America has 
the breadth of idea to do this for England, whether 
reciprocated or not.” 

Thursday^ May 6th. — Thus Middleton was estab¬ 
lished in a singular way among these old men, in one 
of the surroundings most unlike anything in his own 
country. So old it was that it seemed to him the 
freshest and newest thing that he had ever met with. 
The residence was made infinitely the more interest- 

365 


APPENDIX 


ing to him by the sense that he was near the place— 
as all the indications warned him — which he sought, 
whither his dreams had tended from his childhood; 
that he could wander each day round the park within 
which were the old gables of what he believed was his 
hereditary home. He had never known anything like 
the dreamy enjoyment of these days; so quiet, such a 
contrast to the turbulent life from which he had es¬ 
caped across the sea. And here he set himself, still 
with that sense of shadowiness in what he saw and 
in what he did, in making all the researches possible 
to him, about the neighborhood; visiting every little 
church that raised its square battlemented Norman 
tower of gray stone, for several miles round about; 
making himself acquainted with each little village and 
hamlet that surrounded these churches, clustering about 
the graves of those who had dwelt in the same cot¬ 
tages aforetime. He visited all the towns within a 
dozen miles ; and probably there were few of the in¬ 
habitants who had so good an acquaintance with the 
neighborhood as this native American attained within 
a few weeks after his coming thither. 

In course of these excursions he had several times 
met with a young woman, — a young lady, one might 
term her, but in fact he was in some doubt what rank 
she might hold, in England, — who happened to be 
wandering about the country with a singular freedom. 
She was always alone, always on foot; he would see 
her sketching some picturesque old church, some ivied 
ruin, some fine drooping elm. She was a slight figure, 
much more so than Englishwomen generally are; and, 
though healthy of aspect, had not the ruddy complex- 
366 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


ion, which he was irreverently inclined to call the 
coarse tint, that is believed the great charm of English 
beauty. There was a freedom in her step and whole 
little womanhood, an elasticity, an irregularity, so to 
speak, that made her memorable from first sight; and 
when he had encountered her three or four times, he 
felt in a certain way acquainted with her. She was 
very simply dressed, and quite as simple in her deport¬ 
ment ; there had been one or two occasions, when they 
had both smiled at the same thing; soon afterwards a 
little conversation had taken place between them; and 
thus, without any introduction, and in a way that some¬ 
what puzzled Middleton himself, they had become ac¬ 
quainted. It was so unusual that a young English girl 
should be wandering about the country entirely alone 
— so much less usual that she should speak to a stran¬ 
ger— that Middleton scarcely knew how to accoun/: 
for it, but meanwhile accepted the fact readily and will¬ 
ingly, for in truth he found this mysterious personage 
a very likely and entertaining companion. There was 
a strange quality of boldness in her remarks, almost of 
brusqueness, that he might have expected to find in a 
young countrywoman of his own, if bred up among 
the strong-minded, but was astonished to find in a 
young Englishwoman. Somehow or other she made 
him think more of home than any other person or 
thing he met with; and he could not but feel that she 
was in strange contrast with everything about her. She 
was no beauty ; very piquant; very pleasing; in some 
points of view and at some moments pretty; always 
good-humored, but somewhat too self-possessed for 
Middleton’s taste. It struck him that she had talked 


APPENDIX 


with him as if she had some knowledge of him and of 
the purposes with which he was there; not that this 
was expressed, but only implied by the fact that, on 
looking back to what had passed, he found many 
strange coincidences in what she had said with what 
he was thinking about. 

He perplexed himself much with thinking whence 
this young woman had come, where she belonged, and 
what might be her history ; when, the next day, he 
again saw her, not this time rambling on foot, but seated 
in an open barouche with a young lady. Middleton 
lifted his hat to her, and she nodded and smiled to him ; 
and it appeared to Middleton that a conversation ensued 
about him with the young lady, her companion. Now, 
what still more interested him was the fact that, on the 
panel of the barouche were the arms of the family now 
in possession of the estate of SmithelPs ; so that the 
young lady, his new acquaintance, or the young lady, 
her seeming friend, one or the other, was the sister of 
the present owner of that estate. He was inclined to 
think that his acquaintance could not be the Miss 
Eldredge, of whose beauty he had heard many tales 
among the people of the neighborhood. The other 
young lady, a tall, reserved, fair-haired maiden, an¬ 
swered the description considerably better. He con¬ 
cluded, therefore, that his acquaintance must be a 
visitor, perhaps a dependent and companion; though 
the freedom of her thought, action, and way of life 
seemed hardly consistent with this idea. However, this 
slight incident served to give him a sort of connection 
with the family, and he could but hope that some fur¬ 
ther chance would introduce him within what he fondly 
368 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

called his hereditary walls. He had come to think of 
this as a dreamland ; and it seemed even more a dream¬ 
land now than before it rendered itself into actual sub¬ 
stance, an old house of stone and timber standing 
within its park, shaded about with its ancestral trees. 

But thus, at all events, he was getting himself a 
little wrought into the network of human life around 
him, secluded as his position had at first seemed to be, 
in the farmhouse where he had taken up his lodgings. 
For, there was the Hospital and its old inhabitants, in 
whose monotonous existence he soon came to pass for 
something, with his liveliness of mind, his experience, 
his good sense, his patience as a listener, his compara¬ 
tive youth even — his power of adapting himself to 
these stiff and crusty characters, a power learned among 
other things in his political life, where he had acquired 
something of the faculty (good or bad as might be) of 
making himself all things to all men. But though he 
amused himself with them all, there was in truth but 
one man among them in whom he really felt much 
interest; and that one,we need hardly say,was Ham¬ 
mond. It was not often that he found the old gentle¬ 
man in a conversable mood; always courteous, indeed, 
but generally cool and reserved; often engaged in his 
one room, to which Middleton had never yet been 
admitted, though he had more than once sent in his 
name, when Hammond was not apparent upon the 
bench which, by common consent of the Hospital, 
was appropriated to him. 

One day, however, notwithstanding that the old gen¬ 
tleman was confined to his room by indisposition, he 
ventured to inquire at the door, and, considerably to 

369 


APPENDIX 


his surprise, was admitted. He found Hammond in 
his easy-chair, at a table, with writing materials before 
him: and as Middleton entered, the old gentleman 
looked at him with a stern, fixed regard, which, how¬ 
ever, did not seem to imply any particular displeasure 
towards this visitor, but rather a severe way of regard¬ 
ing mankind in general. Middleton looked curiously 
around the small apartment, to see what modification 
the character of the man had had upon the customary 
furniture of the Hospital, and how much of individu¬ 
ality he had given to that general type. There was a 
shelf of books, and a row of them on the mantelpiece; 
works of political economy, they appeared to be, statis¬ 
tics and things of that sort; very dry reading, with 
which, however, Middleton’s experience as a politician 
had made him acquainted. Besides these there were a 
few works on local antiquities, a county history bor¬ 
rowed from the Master’s library, in which Hammond 
appeared to have been lately reading. 

“ They are delightful reading,” observed Middleton, 
“ these old county histories, with their great folio vol¬ 
umes and their minute account of the affairs of fami¬ 
lies and the genealogies, and descents of estates, be¬ 
stowing as much blessed space on a few hundred acres 
as other historians give to a principality. I fear that 
in my own country we shall never have anything of 
this kind. Our space is so vast that we shall never 
come to know and love it, inch by inch, as the Eng¬ 
lish antiquarians do the tracts of country with which 
they deal; and besides, our land is always likely to 
lack the interest that belongs to English estates; for 
where land changes its ownership every few years, it 

370 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


does not become imbued with the personalities of the 
people who live on it. It is but so much grass ; so 
much dirt, where a succession of people have dwelt too 
little to make it really their own. But I have found 
a pleasure that I had no conception of before, in read¬ 
ing some of the English local histories.” 

‘‘ It is not a usual course of reading for a transi¬ 
tory visitor,” said Hammond. “What could induce 
you to undertake it ? ” 

“ Simply the wish so common and natural with 
Americans,” said Middleton, — “ the wish to find out 
something about my kindred, — the local origin of my 
own family.” 

“You do not show your wisdom in this,” said his 
visitor. “ America had better recognize the fact that 
it has nothing to do with England, and look upon it¬ 
self as other nations and people do, as existing on its 
own hook. I never heard of any people looking back 
to the country of their remote origin in the way the 
Anglo-Americans do. For instance, England is made 
up of many alien races, German, Danish, Norman, 
and what not: it has received large accessions of pop¬ 
ulation at a later date than the settlement of the 
United States. Yet these families melt into the great 
homogeneous mass of Englishmen, and look back no 
more to any other country. There are in this vicin¬ 
ity many descendants of the French Huguenots; but 
they care no more for France than for Timbuctoo, 
reckoning themselves only Englishmen, as if they 
were descendants of the aboriginal Britons. Let it be 
so with you.” 

“ So it might be,” replied Middleton, “ only that 

371 


APPENDIX 


our relations with England remain far more numerous 
than our disconnections, through the bonds of history, 
of literature, of all that makes up the memories, and 
much that makes up the present interests of a people. 
And therefore I must still continue to pore over these 
old folios, and hunt around these precincts, spending 
thus the little idle time I am likely to have in a busy 
life. Possibly finding little to my purpose ; but that 
is quite a secondary consideration.” 

“ If you choose to tell me precisely what your aims 
are,” said Hammond, “ it is possible I might give you 
some little assistance.” 

May yth^ Friday. — Middleton was in fact more 
than half ashamed of the dreams which he had cher¬ 
ished before coming to England, and which since, at 
times, had been very potent with him, assuming as 
strong a tinge of reality as those [scenes ?] into which 
he had strayed. He could not prevail with himself to 
disclose fully to this severe, and, as he thought, cyn¬ 
ical old man how strong within him was the senti¬ 
ment that impelled him to connect himself with the 
old life of England, to join on the broken thread of 
ancestry and descent, and feel every link well estab¬ 
lished. But it seemed to him that he ought not to 
lose this fair opportunity of gaining some light on the 
abstruse field of his researches; and he therefore ex¬ 
plained to Hammond that he had reason, from old 
family traditions, to believe that he brought with him 
a fragment of a history that, if followed out, might 
lead to curious results. He told him, in a tone half 
serious, what he had heard respecting the quarrel of 
the two brothers, and the Bloody Footstep, the im- 

372 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


press of which was said to remain, as a lasting memo¬ 
rial of the tragic termination of that enmity. At this 
point, Hammond interrupted him. He had indeed, at 
various points of the narrative, nodded and smiled 
mysteriously, as if looking into his mind and seeing 
something there analogous to what he was listening 
to. He now spoke. 

‘‘This is curious,” said he. “Did you know that 
there is a manor house in this neighborhood, the fam¬ 
ily of which prides itself on having such a blood¬ 
stained threshold as you have now described ? ” 

“No, indeed! ” exclaimed Middleton, greatly inter¬ 
ested. “ Where ? ” 

“ It is the old manor house of SmithelPs,” replied 
Hammond, “one of those old wood and timber [plas¬ 
ter?] mansions, which are among the most ancient 
specimens of domestic architecture in England. The 
house has now passed into the female line, and by 
marriage has been for two or three generations in pos¬ 
session of another family. But the blood of the old 
inheritors is still in the family. The house itself, or 
portions of it, are thought to date back quite as far as 
the Conquest.” 

“SmithelPs?” said Middleton. “Why, I have 
seen that old house from a distance, and have felt no 
little interest in its antique aspect. And it has a Bloody 
Footstep! Would it be possible fora stranger to get 
an opportunity to inspect it ? ” 

“ Unquestionably,” said Hammond, — “ nothing 
easier. It is but a moderate distance from here, and 
if you can moderate your young footsteps, and your 
American quick walk, to an old man's pace, I would 

373 


APPENDIX 


go there with you some day. In this languor and 
ennui of my life, I spend some time in local antiqua- 
rianism, and perhaps I might assist you in tracing out 
how far these traditions of yours may have any con¬ 
nection with reality. It would be curious, would it 
not, if you had come, after two hundred years, to piece 
out a story which may have been as much a mystery 
in England as there in America ? ” 

An engagement was made for a walk to SmithelPs 
the ensuing day ; and meanwhile Middleton entered 
more fully into what he had received from family tra¬ 
ditions and what he had thought out for himself on the 
matter in question. 

“ Are you aware,” asked Hammond, ‘‘ that there 
was formerly a title in this family, now in abeyance, 
and which the heirs have at various times claimed, and 
are at this moment claiming ? Do you know, too,— 
but you can scarcely know it, — that it has been sur¬ 
mised by some that there is an insecurity in the title 
to the estate, and has always been ; so that the pos¬ 
sessors have lived in some apprehension, from time 
immemorial, that another heir would appear and take 
from them the fair inheritance ? It is a singular co¬ 
incidence.” 

“Very strange ! ” exclaimed Middleton. “No; I 
was not aware of it; and, to say the truth, I should 
not altogether like to come forward in the light of a 
claimant. But this is a dream, surely ! ” 

“I assure you, sir,” continued the old man, “that you 
come here in a very critical moment; and singularly 
enough there is a perplexity, a difficulty, that has en¬ 
dured for as long a time as when your ancestors emi- 
374 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


grated, that is still rampant within the bowels, as I 
may say, of the family. Of course, it is too like a 
romance that you should be able to establish any such 
claim as would have a valid influence on this matter; 
but still, being here on the spot, it may be worth 
while, if merely as a matter of amusement, to make 
some researches into this matter.” 

“Surely 1 will,” said Middleton, with a smile, which 
concealed more earnestness than he liked to show; 
“ as to the title, a Republican cannot be supposed to 
think twice about such a bagatelle. The estate ! — 
that might be a more serious consideration.” 

They continued to talk on the subject; and Mid¬ 
dleton learned that the present possessor of the estates 
was a gentleman nowise distinguished from hundreds 
of other English gentlemen; a country squire modi¬ 
fied in accordance with the type of to-day, a frank, 
free, friendly sort of a person enough, who had trav¬ 
elled on the Continent, who employed himself much 
in field sports, who was unmarried, and had a sister 
who was reckoned among the beauties of the county. 

While the conversation was thus going on, to Mid¬ 
dleton’s astonishment there came a knock at the door 
of the room, and, without waiting for a response, it 
was opened, and there appeared at it the same young 
woman whom he had already met. She came in with 
perfect freedom and familiarity, and was received 
quietly by the old gentleman ; who, however, by his 
manner towards Middleton, indicated that he was now 
to take his leave. He did so, after settling the hour 
at which the excursion of the next day was to take 
place. This arranged, he departed, with much to 
375 


APPENDIX 


think of, and a light glimmering through the confused 
labyrinth of thoughts which had been unilluminated 
hitherto. 

To say the truth, he questioned within himself 
whether it were not better to get as quickly as he 
could out of the vicinity; and, at any rate, not to put 
anything of earnest in what had hitherto been nothing 
more than a romance to him. There was something 
very dark and sinister in the events of family history, 
which now assumed a reality that they had never be¬ 
fore worn; so much tragedy, so much hatred, had been 
thrown into that deep pit, and buried under the accu¬ 
mulated debris, the fallen leaves, the rust and dust of 
more than two centuries, that it seemed not worth while 
to dig it up; for perhaps the deadly influences, which 
it had taken so much time to hide, might still be lurk¬ 
ing there, and become potent if he now uncovered 
them. There was something that startled him, in the 
strange, wild light, which gleamed from the old man’s 
eyes, as he threw out the suggestions which had opened 
this prospect to him. What right had he — an Amer¬ 
ican, Republican, disconnected with this country so 
long, alien from its habits of thought and life, reveren¬ 
cing none of the things which Englishmen reverenced 
— what right had he to come with these musty claims 
from the dim past, to disturb them in the life that be¬ 
longed to them ? There was a higher and a deeper 
law than any connected with ancestral claims which 
he could assert; and he had an idea that the law bade 
him keep to the country which his ancestor had chosen 
and to its institutions, and not meddle nor make with 
England. The roots of his family tree could not 

376 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


reach under the ocean ; he was at most but a seedling 
from the parent tree. While thus meditating he found 
that his footsteps had brought him unawares within 
sight of the old manor house of Smithell’s; and that 
he was wandering in a path which, if he followed it 
further, would bring him to an entrance in one of the 
wings of the mansion. With a sort of shame upon 
him, he went forward, and, leaning against a tree, 
looked at what he considered the home of his ances¬ 
tors. 

May Sunday, — At the time appointed, the two 
companions set out on their little expedition, the old 
man in his Hospital uniform, the long black mantle, 
with the bear and ragged staff engraved in silver on 
the breast, and Middleton in the plain costume which 
he had adopted in these wanderings about the coun¬ 
try. On their way, Hammond was not very com¬ 
municative, occasionally dropping some shrewd re¬ 
mark with a good deal of acidity in it; now and then, 
too, favoring his companion with some reminiscence 
of local antiquity; but oftenest silent. Thus they 
went on, and entered the park of Pemberton Manor 
by a bypath, over a stile and one of those footways, 
which are always so well worth threading out in Eng¬ 
land, leading the pedestrian into picturesque and char¬ 
acteristic scenes, when the highroad would show him 
nothing except what was commonplace and uninter¬ 
esting. Now the gables of the old manor house ap¬ 
peared before them, rising amidst the hereditary woods, 
which doubtless dated from a time beyond the days 
which Middleton fondly recalled, when his ancestors 
had walked beneath their shade. On each side of 
377 


APPENDIX 


them were thickets and copses of fern, amidst which 
they saw the hares peeping out to gaze upon them, 
occasionally running across the path, and comporting 
themselves like creatures that felt themselves under 
some sort of protection from the outrages of man, 
though they knew too much of his destructive char¬ 
acter to trust him too far. Pheasants, too, rose close 
beside them, and winged but a little way before they 
alighted; they likewise knew, or seemed to know, 
that their hour was not yet come. On all sides in 
these woods, these wastes, these beasts and birds, there 
was a character that was neither wild nor tame. Man 
had laid his grasp on them all, and done enough to re¬ 
deem them from barbarism, but had stopped short of 
domesticating them ; although Nature, in the wildest 
thing there, acknowledged the powerful and pervading 
influence of cultivation. 

Arriving at a side door of the mansion, Hammond 
rang the bell, and a servant soon appeared. He seemed 
to know the old man, and immediately acceded to his 
request to be permitted to show his companion the 
house; although it was not precisely a show-house, 
nor was this the hour when strangers were usually 
admitted. They entered; and the servant did not 
give himself the trouble to act as a cicerone to the 
two visitants, but carelessly said to the old gentleman 
that he knew the rooms, and that he would leave him 
to discourse to his friend about them. Accordingly, 
they went into the old hall, a dark oaken-panelled 
room, of no great height, with many doors opening 
into it. There was a fire burning on the hearth ; in¬ 
deed, it was the custom of the house to keep it up 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


from morning to night; and in the damp, chill cli¬ 
mate of England, there is seldom a day in some part 
of which a fire is not pleasant to feel. Hammond 
here pointed out a stuffed fox, to which some story 
of a famous chase was attached ; a pair of antlers 
of enormous size; and some old family pictures, so 
blackened with time and neglect that Middleton could 
not well distinguish their features, though curious to 
do so, as hoping to see there the lineaments of some 
with whom he might claim kindred. It was a venera¬ 
ble apartment, and gave a good foretaste of what they 
might hope to find in the rest of the mansion. 

But when they had inspected it pretty thoroughly, 
and were ready to proceed, an elderly gentleman en¬ 
tered the hall, and, seeing Hammond, addressed him 
in a kindly, familiar way; not indeed as an equal 
friend, but with a pleasant and not irksome conversa¬ 
tion. “I am glad to see you here again,” said he. 
“ What ? I have an hour of leisure ; for, to say the 
truth, the day hangs rather heavy till the shooting sea¬ 
son begins. Come; as you have a friend with you, I 
will be your cicerone myself about the house, and 
show you whatever mouldy objects of interest it con¬ 
tains.” 

He then graciously noticed the old man’s compan¬ 
ion, but without asking or seeming to expect an intro¬ 
duction; for, after a careless glance at him, he had 
evidently set him down as a person without social 
claims, a young man in the rank of life fitted to asso¬ 
ciate with an inmate of Pemberton’s Hospital. And 
it must be noticed that his treatment of Middleton 
on that account the less kind, though far 
379 


was not 


APPENDIX 


from being so elaborately courteous as if he had met 
him as an equal. “You have had something of a 
walk,” said he, “and it is a rather hot day. The 
beer of Pemberton Manor has been reckoned good 
these hundred years; will you taste it ? ” 

Hammond accepted the offer, and the beer was 
brought in a foaming tankard j but Middleton declined 
it, for in truth there was a singular emotion in his 
breast, as if the old enmity, the ancient injuries, were 
not yet atoned for, and as if he must not accept the 
hospitality of one who represented his hereditary foe. 
He felt, too, as if there were something unworthy, a 
certain want of fairness, in entering clandestinely the 
house, and talking with its occupant under a veil, as 
it were; and had he seen clearly how to do it, he 
would perhaps at that moment have fairly told Mr. 
Eldredge that he brought with him the character of 
kinsman, and must be received on that grade or none. 
But it was not easy to do this; and after all, there 
was no clear reason why he should do it; so he let 
the matter pass, merely declining to take the refresh¬ 
ment, and keeping himself quiet and retired. 

Squire Eldredge seemed to be a good, ordinary sort 
of gentleman, reasonably well educated, and with few 
ideas beyond his estate and neighborhood, though he 
had once held a seat in Parliament for part of a term. 
Middleton could not but contrast him, with an inward 
smile, with the shrewd, alert politicians, their faculties 
all sharpened to the utmost, whom he had known and 
consorted with in the American Congress. Hammond 
had slightly informed him that his companion was an 
American; and Mr. Eldredge immediately gave proof 
380 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

of the extent of his knowledge of that country, by in¬ 
quiring whether he came from the State of New Eng¬ 
land, and whether Mr. Webster was still President 
of the United States; questions to which Middleton 
returned answers that led to no further conversation. 
These little preliminaries over, they continued their 
ramble through the house, going through tortuous pas¬ 
sages, up and down little flights of steps, and entering 
chambers that had all the charm of discoveries of 
hidden regions; loitering about, in short, in a labyrinth 
calculated to put the head into a delightful confusion. 
Some of these rooms contained their time-honored fur¬ 
niture, all in the best possible repair, heavy, dark, pol¬ 
ished; beds that had been marriage beds and dying 
beds over and over again; chairs with carved backs ; 
and all manner of old world curiosities; family pic¬ 
tures, and samplers, and embroidery; fragments of 
tapestry; an inlaid floor; everything having a story to 
it, though, to say the truth, the possessor of these curi¬ 
osities made but a bungling piece of work in telling 
the legends connected with them. In one or two in¬ 
stances Hammond corrected him. 

By and by they came to what had once been the 
principal bedroom of the house; though its gloom, 
and some circumstances of family misfortune that had 
happened long ago, had caused it to fall into disrepute 
in latter times; and it was now called the Haunted 
Chamber, or the Ghost’s Chamber. The furniture of 
this room, however, was particularly rich in its antique 
magnificence; and one of the principal objects was a 
great black cabinet of ebony and ivory, such as may 
often be seen in old English houses, and perhaps often 


APPENDIX 


in the palaces of Italy, in which country they perhaps 
originated. This present cabinet was known to have 
been in the house as long ago as the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth, and how much longer neither tradition nor 
record told. Hammond particularly directed Middle¬ 
ton’s attention to it. 

“ There is nothing in this house,” said he, “ better 
worth your attention than that cabinet. Consider its 
plan; it represents a stately mansion, with pillars, an 
entrance, with a lofty flight of steps, windows, and 
everything perfect. Examine it well.” 

There was such an emphasis in the old man’s way 
of speaking that Middleton turned suddenly round from 
all that he had been looking at, and fixed his whole 
attention on the cabinet; and strangely enough, it 
seemed to be the representative, in small, of some¬ 
thing that he had seen in a dream. To say the truth, 
if some cunning workman had been employed to copy 
his idea of the old family mansion, on a scale of half 
an inch to a yard, and in ebony and ivory instead of 
stone, he could not have produced a closer imitation. 
Everything was there. 

“ This is miraculous ! ” exclaimed he. “ I do not 
understand it.” 

“Your friend seems to be curious in these matters,” 
said Mr. Eldredge graciously. “ Perhaps he is of some 
trade that makes this sort of manufacture particularly 
interesting to him. You are quite at liberty, my friend, 
to open the cabinet and inspect it as minutely as you 
wish. It is an article that has a good deal to do with an 
obscure portion of our family history. Look, here is 
the key, and the mode of opening the outer door of the 
382 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


palace, as we may well call it.” So saying, he threw 
open the outer door, and disclosed within the mimic 
likeness of a stately entrance hall, with a floor cheq¬ 
uered of ebony and ivory. There were other doors 
that seemed to open into apartments in the interior of 
the palace ; but when Mr. Eldredge threw them like¬ 
wise wide, they proved to be drawers and secret re¬ 
ceptacles, where papers, jewels, money, anything that 
it was desirable to store away secretly, might be kept. 

“You said, sir,” said Middleton thoughtfully, “that 
your family history contained matter of interest in 
reference to this cabinet. Might I inquire what those 
legends are ? ” 

“ Why, yes,” said Mr. Eldredge, musing a little. 
“ I see no reason why I should have any idle conceal¬ 
ment about the matter, especially to a foreigner and 
a man whom I am never likely to see again. You 
must know, then, my friend, that there was once a 
time when this cabinet was known to contain the fate 
of the estate and its possessors; and if it had held all 
that it was supposed to hold, I should not now be 
the lord of Pemberton Manor, nor the claimant of an 
ancient title. But my father, and his father before 
him, and his father besides, have held the estate and 
prospered on it; and I think we may fairly conclude 
now that the cabinet contains nothing except what we 
see.” 

And he rapidly again threw open one after another 
all the numerous drawers and receptacles of the cabi¬ 
net. 

“ It is an interesting object,” said Middleton, after 
looking very closely and with great attention at it, 

383 


APPENDIX 


being pressed thereto, indeed, by the owner’s good- 
natured satisfaction in possessing this rare article of 
vertu. “ It is admirable work,” repeated he, drawing 
back. “ That mosaic floor, especially, is done with 
an art and skill that I never saw equalled.” 

There was something strange and altered in Mid¬ 
dleton’s tones that attracted the notice of Mr. El- 
dredge. Looking at him, he saw that he had grown 
pale, and had a rather bewildered air. 

‘‘ Is your friend ill ? ” said he. “ He has not our 
English ruggedness of look. He would have done 
better to take a sip of the cool tankard, and a slice of 
the cold beef. He finds no such food and drink as 
that in his own country, I warrant.” 

“His color has come back,” responded Hammond 
briefly. “ He does not need any refreshment, I think, 
except, perhaps, the open air.” 

In fact, Middleton, recovering himself, apologized 
to Mr. Hammond [Eldredge?]; and as they had now 
seen nearly the whole of the house, the two visitants 
took their leave, with many kindly offers on Mr. El- 
dredge’s part to permit the young man to view the 
cabinet whenever he wished. As they went out of 
the house (it was by another door than that which 
gave them entrance), Hammond laid his hand on Mid¬ 
dleton’s shoulder and pointed to a stone on the thresh¬ 
old, on which he was about to set his foot. “Take 
care!” said he. “It is the Bloody Footstep.” 

Middleton looked down and saw something, indeed, 
very like the shape of a footprint, with a hue very like 
that of blood. It was a twilight sort of a place, be¬ 
neath a porch, which was much overshadowed by trees 

384 




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,</< to ‘e*:. wi 







THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

and shrubbery. It might have been blood; but he 
rather thought, in his wicked scepticism, that it was 
a natural, reddish stain in the stone. He measured 
his own foot, however, in the Bloody Footstep, and 
went on. 

May loth^ Monday. — This is the present aspect 
of the story : Middleton is the descendant of a family 
long settled in the United States; his ancestor having 
emigrated to New England with the Pilgrims; or, per¬ 
haps, at a still earlier date, to Virginia with Raleigh’s 
colonists. There had been a family dissension, — a 
bitter hostility between two brothers in England; on 
account, probably, of a love affair, the two both being 
attached to the same lady. By the influence of the 
family on both sides, the young lady had formed an 
engagement with the elder brother, although her affec¬ 
tions had settled on the younger. The marriage was 
about to take place when the younger brother and the 
bride both disappeared, and were never heard of with 
any certainty afterwards ; but it was believed at the 
time that he had been killed, and in proof of it a bloody 
footstep remained on the threshold of the ancestral 
mansion. There were rumors afterwards, tradition¬ 
ally continued to the present day, that the younger 
brother and the bride were seen, and together, in Eng¬ 
land ; and that some voyager across the sea had found 
them living together, husband and wife, on the other 
side of the Atlantic. But the elder brother became a 
moody and reserved man, never married, and left the 
inheritance to the children of a third brother, who then 
became the representative of the family in England; 
and the better authenticated story was that the second 

385 


APPENDIX 


brother had really been slain, and that the young lady 
(for all the parties may have been Catholic) had gone 
to the Continent and taken the veil there. Such was 
the family history as known or surmised in England, 
and in the neighborhood of the manor house, where 
the Bloody Footstep still remained on the thresh¬ 
old ; and the posterity of the third brother still held 
the estate, and perhaps were claimants of an ancient 
baronage, long in abeyance. 

Now, on the other side of the Atlantic, the second 
brother and the young lady had really been married, 
and became the parents of a posterity, still extant, of 
which the Middleton of the romance is the surviving 
male. Perhaps he had changed his name, being so 
much tortured with the evil and wrong that had sprung 
up in his family, so remorseful, so outraged, that he 
wished to disconnect himself with all the past, and 
begin life quite anew in a new world. But both he 
and his wife, though happy in one another, had been 
remorsefully and sadly so ; and, with such feelings, 
they had never again communicated with their respec¬ 
tive families, nor had given their children the means 
of doing so. There must, I think, have been some¬ 
thing nearly approaching to guilt on the second bro¬ 
ther’s part, and the bride should have broken a sol¬ 
emnly plighted troth to the elder brother, breaking 
away from him when almost his wife. The elder 
brother had been known to have been wounded at the 
time of the second brother’s disappearance; and it had 
been the surmise that he had received this hurt in the 
personal conflict in which the latter was slain. But 
in truth the second brother had stabbed him in the 
386 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

emergency of being discovered in the act of escaping 
with the bride; and this was what weighed upon his 
conscience throughout life in America. The Ameri¬ 
can family had prolonged itself through various for¬ 
tunes, and all the ups and downs incident to our insti¬ 
tutions, until the present day. They had some old 
family documents, which had been rather carelessly 
kept; but the present representative, being an edu¬ 
cated man, had looked over them, and found one 
which interested him strongly. It was — what was it ? 
— perhaps a copy of a letter written by his ancestor 
on his deathbed, telling his real name, and relating 
the above incidents. These incidents had come down 
in a vague, wild way, traditionally, in the American 
family, forming a wondrous and incredible legend, 
which Middleton had often laughed at, yet been greatly 
interested in ; and the discovery of this document 
seemed to give a certain aspect of veracity and reality 
to the tradition. Perhaps, however, the document only 
related to the change of name, and made reference to 
certain evidences by which, if any descendant of the 
family should deem it expedient, he might prove his 
hereditary identity. The legend must be accounted 
for by having been gathered from the talk of the first 
ancestor and his wife. There must be in existence, 
in the early records of the colony, an authenticated 
statement of this change of name, and satisfactory 
proofs that the American family, long known as Mid¬ 
dleton, were really a branch of the English family of 
Eldredge, or whatever. And in the legend, though not 
in the written document, there must be an account of 
a certain magnificent, almost palatial residence, which 

387 


APPENDIX 


Middleton shall presume to be the ancestral home; 
and in this palace there shall be said to be a certain 
secret chamber, or receptacle, where is reposited a 
document that shall complete the evidence of the 
genealogical descent. 

Middleton is still a young man, but already a dis¬ 
tinguished one in his own country; he has entered 
early into politics, been sent to Congress, but having 
met with some disappointments in his ambitious hopes, 
and being disgusted with the fierceness of political 
contests in our country, he has come abroad for re¬ 
creation and rest. His imagination has dwelt much, 
in his boyhood, on the legendary story of his family; 
and the discovery of the document has revived these 
dreams. He determines to search out the family man¬ 
sion ; and thus he arrives, bringing half of a story, 
being the only part known in America, to join it on 
to the other half, which is the only part known in 
England. In an introduction I must do the best I 
can to state his side of the matter to the reader, he 
having communicated it to me in a friendly way, at 
the Consulate; as many people have communicated 
quite as wild pretensions to English genealogies. 

He comes to the midland counties of England, 
where he conceives his claims to lie, and seeks for his 
ancestral home; but there are difficulties in the way 
of finding it, the estates having passed into the female 
line, though still remaining in the blood. By and by, 
however, he comes to an old town where there is 
one of the charitable institutions bearing the name of 
his family, by whose beneficence it had indeed been 
founded, in Queen Elizabeth’s time. He of course 
388 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


becomes interested in this Hospital; he finds it still 
going on, precisely as it did in the old days; and all 
the character and life of the establishment must be 
picturesquely described. Here he gets acquainted with 
an old man, an inmate of the Hospital, who (if the 
uncontrollable fatality of the story will permit) must 
have an active influence on the ensuing events. I sup¬ 
pose him to have been an American, but to have fled 
his country and taken refuge in England; he shall 
have been a man of the Nicholas Biddle stamp, a 
mighty speculator, the ruin of whose schemes had 
crushed hundreds of people, and Middleton’s father 
among the rest. Here he had quitted the activity of 
his mind, as well as he could, becoming a local anti¬ 
quary, etc., and he has made himself acquainted with 
the family history of the Eldredges, knowing more 
about it than the members of the family themselves do. 
He had known in America (from Middleton’s father, 
who was his friend) the legends preserved in this 
branch of the family, and perhaps had been struck by 
the way in which they fit into the English legends; at 
any rate, this strikes him when Middleton tells him his 
story and shows him the document respecting the 
change of name. After various conversations together 
(in which, however, the old man keeps the secret of 
his own identity, and indeed acts as mysteriously as 
possible), they go together to visit the ancestral man¬ 
sion. Perhaps it should not be in their first visit that 
the cabinet, representing the stately mansion, shall be 
seen. But the Bloody Footstep may; which shall in¬ 
terest Middleton much, both because Hammond has 
told him the English tradition respecting it, and be- 


APPENDIX 


cause too the legends of the American family made 
some obscure allusions to his ancestor having left 
blood — a bloody footstep — on the ancestral thresh¬ 
old. This is the point to which the story has now 
been sketched out. Middleton finds a commonplace 
old English country gentleman in possession of the 
estate, where his forefathers have lived in peace for 
many generations ; but there must be circumstances 
contrived which shall cause Middleton’s conduct to be 
attended by no end of turmoil and trouble. The old 
Hospitaller, I suppose, must be the malicious agent in 
this ; and his malice must be motived in some satis¬ 
factory way. The more serious question, what shall 
be the nature of this tragic trouble, and how can it be 
brought about ? 

May iith^ Tuesday, — How much better would it 
have been if this secret, which seemed so golden, had 
remained in the obscurity in which two hundred years 
had buried it! That deep, old, grass-grown grave be¬ 
ing opened, out from it streamed into the sunshine the 
old fatalities, the old crimes, the old misfortunes, the 
sorrows, that seemed to have departed from the family 
forever. But it was too late now to close it up ; he 
must follow out the thread that led him on, — the 
thread of fate, if you choose to call it so; but rather 
the impulse of an evil will, a stubborn self-interest, a 
desire for certain objects of ambition which were pre¬ 
ferred to what yet were recognized as real goods. 
Thus reasoned, thus raved, Eldredge, as he considered 
the things that he had done, and still intended to do; 
nor did these perceptions make the slightest difference 
in his plans, nor in the activity with which he set 

390 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


about their performance. For this purpose he sent for 
his lawyer, and consulted him on the feasibility of the 
design which he had already communicated to him 
respecting Middleton. But the man of law shook his 
head, and, though deferentially, declined to have any 
active concern with the matter that threatened to lead 
him beyond the bounds which he allowed himself, into 
a seductive but perilous region. 

“ My dear sir,” said he, with some earnestness, 
‘‘ you had much better content yourself with such as¬ 
sistance as I can professionally and consistently give 
you. Believe [me], I am willing to do a lawyer’s ut¬ 
most, and to do more would be as unsafe for the client 
as for the legal adviser.” 

Thus left without an agent and an instrument, this 
unfortunate man had to meditate on what means he 
would use to gain his ends through his own unassisted 
efforts. In the struggle with himself through which 
he had passed, he had exhausted pretty much all the 
feelings that he had to bestow on this matter; and 
now he was ready to take hold of almost any tempta¬ 
tion that might present itself, so long as it showed a 
good prospect of success and a plausible chance of 
impunity. While he was thus musing, he heard a 
female voice chanting some song, like a bird’s among 
the pleasant foliage of the trees, and soon he saw at 
the end of a wood walk Alice, with her basket on her 
arm, passing on toward the village. She looked to¬ 
wards him as she passed, but made no pause nor yet 
hastened her steps, not seeming to think it worth her 
while to be influenced by him. He hurried forward 
and overtook her. 


391 


APPENDIX 


So there was this poor old gentleman, his com¬ 
fort utterly overthrown, decking his white hair and 
wrinkled brow with the semblance of a coronet, and 
only hoping that the reality might crown and bless 
him before he was laid in the ancestral tomb. It was 
a real calamity; though by no means the greatest that 
had been fished up out of the pit of domestic discord 
that had been opened anew by the advent of the 
American, and by the use which had been made of it 
by the cantankerous old man of the Hospital. Mid¬ 
dleton, as he looked at these evil consequences, some¬ 
times regretted that he had not listened to those fore¬ 
bodings which had warned him back on the eve of his 
enterprise ; yet such was the strange entanglement 
and interest which had wound about him, that often 
he rejoiced that for once he was engaged in something 
that absorbed him fully, and the zeal for the develop¬ 
ment of which made him careless for the result in 
respect to its good or evil, but only desirous that it 
show itself. As for Alice, she seemed to skim lightly 
through all these matters, whether as a spirit of good 
or ill he could not satisfactorily judge. He could not 
think her wicked ; yet her actions seemed unaccount¬ 
able on the plea that she was otherwise. It was an¬ 
other characteristic thread in the wild web of madness 
that had spun itself about all the prominent characters 
of our story. And when Middleton thought of these 
things, he felt as if it might be his duty (supposing he 
had the power) to shovel the earth again into the pit 
that he had been the means of opening; but also felt 
that, whether duty or not, he would never perform it. 

For, you see, on the American’s arrival he had 

392 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


found the estate in the hands of one of the descend¬ 
ants ; but some disclosures consequent on his arrival 
had thrown it into the hands of another; or, at all 
events, had seemed to make it apparent that justice 
required that it should be so disposed of. No sooner 
was the discovery made than the possessor put on a 
coronet; the new heir had commenced legal proceed¬ 
ings ; the sons of the respective branches had come 
to blows and blood; and the devil knows what other 
devilish consequences had ensued. Besides this, there 
was much falling in love at cross-purposes, and a gen¬ 
eral animosity of everybody against everybody else, in 
proportion to the closeness of the natural ties and 
their obligation to love one another. 

The moral, if any moral were to be gathered from 
these petty and wretched circumstances, was : “ Let 
the past alone: do not seek to renew it; press on to 
higher and better things, — at all events, to other 
things; and be assured that the right way can never 
be that which leads you back to the identical shapes 
that you long ago left behind. Onward, onward, on¬ 
ward ! ” 

“ What have you to do here said Alice. “Your 
lot is in another land. You have seen the birthplace 
of your forefathers, and have gratified your natural 
yearning for it; now return, and cast in your lot with 
your own people, let it be what it will. I fully be¬ 
lieve that it is such a lot as the world has never yet 
seen, and that the faults, the weaknesses, the errors, 
of your countrymen will vanish away like morning 
mists before the rising sun. You can do nothing 
better than to go back.” 


393 


APPENDIX 


“This is strange advice, Alice,” said Middleton, 
gazing at her and smiling. “ Go back, with such a 
fair prospect before me; that were strange indeed! 
It is enough to keep me here, that here only I shall 
see you, — enough to make me rejoice to have come, 
that I have found you here.” 

“Do not speak in this foolish way!” cried Alice, 
panting. “I am giving you the best advice, and 
speaking in the wisest way I am capable of, — speak¬ 
ing on good grounds too, — and you turn me aside 
with a silly compliment. I tell you that this is no 
comedy in which we are performers, but a deep, sad 
tragedy; and that it depends most upon you whether 
or no it shall be pressed to a catastrophe. Think 
well of it.” 

“ I have thought, Alice,” responded the young man, 
“ and I must let things take their course; if, indeed, 
it depends at all upon me, which I see no present 
reason to suppose. Yet I wish you would explain to 
me what you mean.” 

To take up the story from the point where we left 
it: by the aid of the American’s revelations, some 
light is thrown upon points of family history, which 
induce the English possessor of the estate to suppose 
that the time has come for asserting his claim to a 
title which has long been in abeyance. He therefore 
sets about it, and engages in great expenses, besides 
contracting the enmity of many persons, with whose 
interests he interferes. A further complication is 
brought about by the secret interference of the old 
Hospitaller, and Alice goes singing and dancing 
through the whole, in a way that makes her seem like 
394 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


a beautiful devil, though finally it will be recognized 
that she is an angel of light. Middleton, half be¬ 
wildered, can scarcely tell how much of this is due to 
his own agency; how much is independent of him 
and would have happened had he stayed on his own 
side of the water. By and by a further and unex¬ 
pected development presents the singular fact that he 
himself is the heir to whatever claims there are, 
whether of property or rank,— all centring in him 
as the representative of the eldest brother. On this 
discovery there ensues a tragedy in the death of the 
present possessor of the estate, who has staked every¬ 
thing upon the issue; and Middleton, standing amid 
the ruin and desolation of which he has been the in¬ 
nocent cause, resigns all the claims which he might 
now assert, and retires, arm in arm with Alice, who 
has encouraged him to take this course, and to act up 
to his character. The estate takes a passage into the 
female line, and the old name becomes extinct, nor 
does Middleton seek to continue it by resuming it in 
place of the one long ago assumed by his ancestor. 
Thus he and his wife become the Adam and Eve of 
a new epoch, and the fitting missionaries of a new 
social faith, of which there must be continual hints 
through the book. 

A knot of characters may be introduced as gather¬ 
ing around Middleton, comprising expatriated Amer¬ 
icans of all sorts: the wandering printer who came 
to me so often at the Consulate, who said he was a 
native of Philadelphia, and could not go home in the 
thirty years that he had been trying to do so, for lack 
of the money to pay his passage; the large banker; 
395 


APPENDIX 


the consul of Leeds ; the woman asserting her claims 
to half Liverpool; the gifted literary lady, maddened 
by Shakespeare, etc., etc. 5 the Yankee who had been 
driven insane by the Queen’s notice, slight as it was, 
of the photographs of his two children which he had 
sent her. I have not yet struck the true keynote of 
this Romance, and until I do, and unless I do, I shall 
write nothing but tediousness and nonsense. I do 
not wish it to be a picture of life, but a Romance, 
grim, grotesque, quaint, of which the Hospital might 
be the fitting scene. It might have so much of the 
hues of life that the reader should sometimes think it 
was intended for a picture, yet the atmosphere should 
be such as to excuse all wildness. In the Introduc¬ 
tion, I might disclaim all intention to draw a real 
picture, but say that the continual meetings I had with 
Americans bent on such errands had suggested this 
wild story. The descriptions of scenery, etc., and of 
the Hospital, might be correct, but there should be a 
tinge of the grotesque given to all the characters and 
events. The tragic and the gentler pathetic need not 
be excluded by the tone and treatment. If I could 
but write one central scene in this vein, all the rest of 
the Romance would readily arrange itself around that 
nucleus. The begging girl would be another Ameri¬ 
can character; the actress too; the caravan people. 
It must be humorous work, or nothing. 

Ill 

May I2th^ Wednesday. — Middleton found his abode 
here becoming daily more interesting; and he some- 

396 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


times thought that it was the sympathies with the place 
and people, buried under the supergrowth of so many 
ages, but now coming forth with the life and vigor of 
a fountain, that, long hidden beneath earth and ruins, 
gushes out singing into the sunshine, as soon as these 
are removed. He wandered about the neighborhood 
with insatiable interest; sometimes, and often, lying 
on a hillside and gazing at the gray tower of the 
church j sometimes coming into the village clustered 
round that same church, and looking at the old timber 
and plaster houses, the same, except that the thatch 
had probably been often renewed, that they used to 
be in his ancestor’s days. In those old cottages still 

dwelt the families, the-s, the Prices, the Hop- 

norts, the Copleys, that had dwelt there when Amer¬ 
ica was a scattered progeny of infant colonies ; and in 
the churchyard were the graves of all the generations 
since — including the dust of those who had seen his 
ancestor’s face before his departure. 

The graves, outside the church walls indeed, bore 
no marks of this antiquity; for it seems not to have 
been an early practice in England to put stones over 
such graves ; and where it has been done, the climate 
causes the inscriptions soon to become obliterated and 
unintelligible. But, within the church, there were rich 
words of the personages and times with whom Middle¬ 
ton’s musings held so much converse. 

But one of his greatest employments and pastimes 
was to ramble through the grounds of Smithell’s, mak¬ 
ing himself as well acquainted with its wood paths, its 
glens, its woods, its venerable trees, as if he had been 
bred up there from infancy. Some of those old oaks 

397 



APPENDIX 


his ancestor might have been acquainted with, while 
they were already sturdy and well-grown trees ; might 
have climbed them in boyhood j might have mused 
beneath them as a lover; might have flung himself at 
full length on the turf beneath them, in the bitter 
anguish that must have preceded his departure forever 
from the home of his forefathers. In order to secure 
an uninterrupted enjoyment of his rambles here, Mid¬ 
dleton had secured the good will of the gamekeepers 
and other underlings whom he was likely to meet about 
the grounds, by giving them a shilling or a half-crown; 
and he was now free to wander where he would, with 
only the advice rather than the caution, to keep out 
of the way of their old master, — for there might be 
trouble, if he should meet a stranger on the grounds, in 
any of his tantrums. But, in fact, Mr. Eldredge was 
not much in the habit of walking about the grounds; 
and there were hours of every day, during which it 
was altogether improbable that he would have emerged 
from his own apartments in the manor house. These 
were the hours, therefore, when Middleton most fre¬ 
quented the estate ; although, to say the truth, he would 
gladly have so timed his visits as to meet and form 
an acquaintance with the lonely lord of this beautiful 
property, his own kinsman, though with so many ages 
of dark oblivion between. For Middleton had not 
that feeling of infinite distance in the relationship, 
which he would have had if his branch of the family 
had continued in England, and had not intermarried 
with the other branch, through such a long waste of 
years; he rather felt as if he were the original emi¬ 
grant, who, long resident on a foreign shore, had now 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


returned, with a heart brimful of tenderness, to revisit 
the scenes of his youth, and renew his tender relations 
with those who shared his own blood. 

There was not, however, much in what he heard 
of the character of the present possessor of the estate 
— or indeed in the strong family characteristic that 
had become hereditary — to encourage him to attempt 
any advances. It is very probable that the religion 
of Mr. Eldredge, as a Catholic, may have excited a 
prejudice against him, as it certainly had insulated the 
family, in a great degree, from the sympathies of the 
neighborhood. Mr. Eldredge, moreover, had resided 
long on the Continent; long in Italy ; and had come 
back with habits that little accorded with those of the 
gentry of the neighborhood j so that, in fact, he was 
almost as much of a stranger, and perhaps quite as lit¬ 
tle of a real Englishman, as Middleton himself. Be 
that as it might, Middleton, when he sought to learn 
something about him, heard the strangest stories of his 
habits of life, of his temper, and of his employments, 
from the people with whom he conversed. The old 
legend, turning upon the monomania of the family, 
was revived in full force in reference to this poor gen¬ 
tleman; and many a time Middleton’s interlocutors 
shook their wise heads, saying, with a knowing look 
and under their breath, that the old gentleman was 
looking for the track of the Bloody Footstep. They 
fabled — or said, for it might not have been a false 
story — that every descendant of this house had a cer¬ 
tain portion of his life, during which he sought the 
track of that footstep which was left on the threshold 
of the mansion; that he sought it far and wide, over 
399 


APPENDIX 


every foot of the estate; not only on the estate, but 
throughout the neighborhood; not only in the neigh¬ 
borhood, but all over England; not only throughout 
England, but all about the world. It was the belief of 
the neighborhood—at least of some old men and 
women in it — that the long period of Mr. Eldredge’s 
absence from England had been spent in the search 
for some trace of those departing footsteps that had 
never returned. It is very possible — probable, in¬ 
deed— that there may have been some ground for 
this remarkable legend; not that it is to be credited 
that the family of Eldredge, being reckoned among 
sane men, would seriously have sought, years and 
generations after the fact, for the first track of those 
bloody footsteps which the first rain of drippy Eng¬ 
land must have washed away; to say nothing of the 
leaves that had fallen and the growth and decay of so 
many seasons, that covered all traces of them since. 
But nothing is more probable than that the continual 
recurrence to the family genealogy, which had been 
necessitated by the matter of the dormant peerage, had 
caused the Eldredges, from father to son, to keep alive 
an interest in that ancestor who had disappeared, and 
who had been supposed to carry some of the most im¬ 
portant family papers with him. But yet it gave Mid¬ 
dleton a strange thrill of pleasure, that had something 
fearful in it, to think that all through these ages he 
had been waited for, sought for, anxiously expected, 
as it were; it seemed as if the very ghosts of his kin¬ 
dred, a long shadowy line, held forth their dim arms 
to welcome him; a line stretching back to the ghosts 
of those who had flourished in the old, old times; the 
400 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

doubletted and beruffled knightly shades of Queen 
Elizabeth’s time; a long line, stretching from the 
mediaeval ages, and their duskiness, downward, down¬ 
ward, with only one vacant space, that of him who 
had left the Bloody Footstep. There was an inex¬ 
pressible pleasure (airy and evanescent, gone in a 
moment if he dwelt upon it too thoughtfully, but very 
sweet) to Middleton’s imagination, in this idea. When 
he reflected, however, that his revelations, if they had 
any effect at all, might serve only to quench the hopes 
of these long expectants, it of course made him hesi¬ 
tate to declare himself. 

One afternoon, when he was in the midst of mus- 
ings such as this, he saw at a distance through the 
park, in the direction of the manor house, a person 
who seemed to be walking slowly and seeking for 
something upon the ground. He was a long way off 
when Middleton first perceived him; and there were 
two clumps of trees and underbrush, with interspersed 
tracts of sunny lawn, between them. The person, 
whoever he was, kept on, and plunged into the first 
clump of shrubbery, still keeping his eyes on the 
ground, as if intensely searching for something. When 
he emerged from the concealment of the first clump 
of shrubbery, Middleton saw that he was a tall, thin 
person, in a dark dress; and this was the chief obser¬ 
vation that the distance enabled him to make, as the 
figure kept slowly onward, in a somewhat wavering 
line, and plunged into the second clump of shrubbery. 
From that, too, he emerged; and soon appeared to be 
a thin elderly figure, of a dark man with gray hair, 
bent, as it seemed to Middleton, with infirmity, for his 
401 


APPENDIX 


figure still stooped even in the intervals when he did 
not appear to be tracking the ground. But Middle- 
ton could not but be surprised at the singular appear¬ 
ance the figure had of setting its foot, at every step, 
just where a previous footstep had been made, as if 
he wanted to measure his whole pathway in the track 
of somebody who had recently gone over the ground 
in advance of him. Middleton was sitting at the foot 
of an oak; and he began to feel some awkwardness in 
the consideration of what he would do if Mr. Eldredge 
— for he could not doubt that it was he — were to 
be led just to this spot, in pursuit of his singular oc¬ 
cupation. And even so it proved. 

Middleton could not feel it manly to fly and hide 
himself, like a guilty thing; and indeed the hospital¬ 
ity of the English country gentleman in many cases 
gives the neighborhood and the stranger a certain de¬ 
gree of freedom in the use of the broad expanse of 
ground in which they and their forefathers have loved 
to sequester their residences. The figure kept on, 
showing more and more distinctly the tall, meagre, 
not unvenerable features of a gentleman in the decline 
of life, apparently in ill health; with a dark face, that 
might once have been full of energy, but now seemed 
enfeebled by time, passion, and perhaps sorrow. But 
it was strange to see the earnestness with which he 
looked on the ground, and the accuracy with which 
he at last set his foot, apparently adjusting it exactly 
to some footprint before him; and Middleton doubted 
not that, having studied and re-studied the family re¬ 
cords and the judicial examinations which described 
exactly the track that was seen the day after the mem- 
402 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


orable disappearance of his ancestor, Mr. Eldredge 
was now, in some freak, or for some purpose best 
known to himself, practically following it out. And 
follow it out he did, until at last he lifted up his eyes, 
muttering to himself, ‘‘At this point the footsteps 
wholly disappear.” 

Lifting his eyes, as we have said, while thus regret¬ 
fully and despairingly muttering these words, he saw 
Middleton against the oak, within three paces of him. 

May ijth^ Thursday. — Mr. Eldredge (for it was 
he) first kept his eyes fixed full on Middleton’s face, 
with an expression as if he saw him not; but gradu¬ 
ally— slowly, at first — he seemed to become aware 
of his presence ; then, with a sudden flush, he took in 
the idea that he was encountered by a stranger in his 
secret mood. A flush of anger or shame, perhaps 
both, reddened over his face ; his eyes gleamed ; and 
he spoke hastily and roughly. 

“ Who are you ? ” he said. “ How come you here ? 
I allow no intruders in my park. Begone, fellow! ” 

“ Really, sir, I did not mean to intrude upon you,*’ 
said Middleton blandly. “ I am aware that I owe you 
an apology; but the beauties of your park must plead 
my excuse, and the constant kindness of [the] Eng¬ 
lish gentleman, which admits a stranger to the privi¬ 
lege of enjoying so much of the beauty in which he 
himself dwells as the stranger’s taste permits him to 
enjoy.” 

“ An artist, perhaps,” said Mr. Eldredge, somewhat 
less uncourteously. “ I am told that they love to come 
here and sketch those old oaks and their vistas, and 
the old mansion yonder. But you are an intrusive 

403 


APPENDIX 


set, you artists, and think that a pencil and a sheet of 
paper may be your passport anywhere. You are mis¬ 
taken, sir. My park is not open to strangers.” 

“ I am sorry, then, to have intruded upon you,” 
said Middleton, still in good humor; for in truth he 
felt a sort of kindness, a sentiment, ridiculous as it 
may appear, of kindred towards the old gentleman, 
and besides was not unwilling in any way to prolong 
a conversation in which he found a singular interest. 
“ I am sorry, especially as I have not even the excuse 
you kindly suggest for me. I am not an artist, only 
an American, who have strayed hither to enjoy this 
gentle, cultivated, tamed nature which I find in Eng¬ 
lish parks, so contrasting with the wild, rugged nature 
of my native land. I beg your pardon, and will re¬ 
tire.” 

“ An American,” repeated Mr. Eldredge, looking 
curiously at him. “Ah, you are wild men in that 
country, I suppose, and cannot conceive that an Eng¬ 
lish gentleman encloses his grounds — or that his 
ancestors have done so before him — for his own 
pleasure and convenience, and does not calculate on 
having it infringed upon by everybody, like your own 
forests, as you say. It is a curious country, that of 
yours; and in Italy I have seen curious people from 
it.” 

“True, sir,” said Middleton, smiling. “We send 
queer specimens abroad; but Englishmen should con¬ 
sider that we spring from them, and that we present 
after all only a picture of their own characteristics, a 
little varied by climate and in situation.” 

Mr. Eldredge looked at him with a certain kind of 
404 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

interest, and it seemed to Middleton that he was not 
unwilling to continue the conversation, if a fair way 
to do so could only be offered to him. A secluded 
man often grasps at any opportunity of communicat¬ 
ing with his kind, when it is casually offered to him, 
and for the nonce is surprisingly familiar, running out 
towards his chance companion with the gush of a 
dammed-up torrent, suddenly unlocked. As Middle- 
ton made a motion to retire, he put out his hand with 
an air of authority to restrain him. 

“ Stay,” said he. “Now that you are here, the mis¬ 
chief is done, and you cannot repair it by hastening 
away. You have interrupted me in my mood of 
thought, and must pay the penalty by suggesting other 
thoughts. I am a lonely man here, having spent most 
of my life abroad, and am separated from my neigh¬ 
bors by various circumstances. You seem to be an 
intelligent man. I should like to ask you a few ques¬ 
tions about your country.” 

He looked at Middleton as he spoke, and seemed 
to be considering in what rank of life he should place 
him; his dress being such as suited a humble rank. 
He seemed not to have come to any very certain de¬ 
cision on this point. 

“ I remember,” said he, “ you have no distinctions 
of rank in your country; a convenient thing enough, 
in some respects. When there are no gentlemen, all 
are gentlemen. So let it be. You speak of being Eng¬ 
lishmen ; and it has often occurred to me that English¬ 
men have left this country and been much missed and 
sought after, who might perhaps be sought there suc¬ 
cessfully.” 


405 


APPENDIX 


“ It is certainly so, Mr. Eldredge,” said Middleton, 
lifting his eyes to his face as he spoke, and then turn¬ 
ing them aside. “ Many footsteps, the track of which 
is lost in England, might be found reappearing on the 
other side of the Atlantic; ay, though it be hundreds 
of years since the track was lost here.” 

Middleton, though he had refrained from looking 
full at Mr. Eldredge as he spoke, was conscious that 
he gave a great start; and he remained silent for a 
moment or two, and when he spoke there was the 
tremor in his voice of a nerve that had been struck 
and still vibrated. 

‘‘That is a singular idea of yours,” he at length 
said; “ not singular in itself, but strangely coincident 
with something that happened to be occupying my 
mind. Have you ever heard any such instances as 
you speak of ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Middleton, “I have had pointed 
out to me the rightful heir to a Scottish earldom, in 
the person of an American farmer, in his shirt sleeves. 
There are many Americans who believe themselves 
to hold similar claims. And I have known one fam¬ 
ily, at least, who had in their possession, and had had 
for two centuries, a secret that might have been worth 
wealth and honors if known in England. Indeed, 
being kindred as we are, it cannot but be the case.” 

Mr. Eldredge appeared to be much struck by these 
last words, and gazed wistfully, almost wildly, at Mid¬ 
dleton, as if debating with himself whether to say more. 
He made a step or two aside; then returned abruptly, 
and spoke. 

“ Can you tell me the name of the family in which 
406 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


this secret was kept ? ” said he 5 “ and the nature of 
the secret ?” 

“ The nature of the secret,” said Middleton, smil¬ 
ing, “ was not likely to be extended to any one out of 
the family. The name borne by the family was Mid¬ 
dleton. There is no member of it, so far as I am 
aware, at this moment remaining in America.” 

“ And has the secret died with them ? ” asked Mr. 
Eldredge. 

“ They communicated it to none,” said Middleton. 

‘‘ It is a pity ! It was a villainous wrong,” said 
Mr. Eldredge. “And so, it may be, some ancient 
line, in the old country, is defrauded of its rights for 
want of what might have been obtained from this 
Yankee, whose democracy has demoralized them to 
the perception of what is due to the antiquity of de¬ 
scent, and of the bounden duty that there is, in all 
ranks, to keep up the honor of a family that has had 
potence enough to preserve itself in distinction for a 
thousand years.” 

“Yes,” said Middleton quietly, “we have sympa¬ 
thy with what is strong and vivacious to-day; none 
with what was so yesterday.” 

The remark seemed not to please Mr. Eldredge; 
he frowned, and muttered something to himself; but 
recovering himself, addressed Middleton with more 
courtesy than at the commencement of their inter¬ 
view ; and, with this graciousness, his face and man¬ 
ner grew very agreeable, almost fascinating : he [was] 
still haughty, however. 

“ Well, sir,” said he, “ I am not sorry to have met 
you. I am a solitary man, as I have said, and a little 

407 


APPENDIX 


communication with a stranger is a refreshment, which 
I enjoy seldom enough to be sensible of it. Pray, are 
you staying hereabouts ? ” 

Middleton signified to him that he might probably 
spend some little time in the village. 

“Then, during your stay,” said Mr. Eldredge, 
“make free use of the walks in these grounds; and 
though it is not probable that you will meet me in 
them again, you need apprehend no second question¬ 
ing of your right to be here. My house has many 
points of curiosity that may be of interest to a stranger 
from a new country. Perhaps you have heard of 
some of them.” 

“I have heard some wild legend about a Bloody 
Footstep,” answered Middleton; “ indeed, I think I 
remember hearing something about it in my own 
country; and having a fanciful sort of interest in such 
things, I took advantage of the hospitable custom 
which opens the doors of curious old houses to stran¬ 
gers to go to see it. It seemed to me, I confess, only 
a natural stain in the old stone that forms the door¬ 
step.” 

“ There, sir,” said Mr. Eldredge, “ let me say that 
you came to a very foolish conclusion; and so, good- 
by, sir.” 

And without further ceremony, he cast an angry 
glance at Middleton, who perceived that the old gen¬ 
tleman reckoned the Bloody Footstep among his an¬ 
cestral honors, and would probably have parted with 
his claim to the peerage almost as soon as have given 
up the legend. 

Present aspect of the story: Middleton on his ar- 
408 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


rival becomes acquainted with the old Hospitaller, and 
is familiarized at the Hospital. He pays a visit in his 
company to the manor house, but merely glimpses at 
its remarkable things, at this visit, among others at the 
old cabinet, which does not, at first view, strike him 
very strongly. But, on musing about his visit after¬ 
wards, he finds the recollection of the cabinet strangely 
identifying itself with his previous imaginary picture 
of the palatial mansion; so that at last he begins to 
conceive the mistake he has made. At this first 
[visit], he does not have a personal interview with 
the possessor of the estate; but, as the Hospitaller 
and himself go from room to room, he finds that the 
owner is preceding them, shyly flitting like a ghost, so 
as to avoid them. Then there is a chapter about the 
character of the Eldredge of the day, a Catholic, a 
morbid, shy man, representing all the peculiarities of 
an old family, and generally thought to be insane. 
And then comes the interview between him and Mid¬ 
dleton, where the latter excites such an interest that 
he dwells upon the old man’s mind, and the latter 
probably takes pains to obtain further intercourse with 
him, and perhaps invites him to dinner, and [to] 
spend a night in his house. If so, this second meet¬ 
ing must lead to the examination of the cabinet, and 
the discovery of some family documents in it. Per¬ 
haps the cabinet may be in Middleton’s sleeping cham¬ 
ber, and he examines it by himself, before going to bed; 
and finds out a secret which will perplex him how to 
deal with it. 

May iph^ Friday. — We have spoken several times 
already of a young girl, who was seen at this period 
409 


APPENDIX 


about the little antiquated village of SmithelPs, — a girl 
in manners and in aspect unlike those of the cottages 
amid which she dwelt. Middleton had now so often 
met her, and in solitary places, that an acquaintance had 
inevitably established itself between them. He had 
ascertained that she had lodgings at a farmhouse near 
by, and that she was connected in some way with the 
old Hospitaller, whose acquaintance had proved of 
such interest to him ; but more than this he could not 
learn either from her or others. But he was greatly 
attracted and interested by the free spirit and fearless¬ 
ness of this young woman; nor could he conceive 
where, in staid and formal England, she had grown up 
to be such as she was, so without manner, so without 
art, yet so capable of doing and thinking for herself. 
She had no reserve, apparently, yet never seemed to 
sin against decorum ; it never appeared to restrain 
her that anything she might wish to do was contrary 
to custom; she had nothing of what could be called 
shyness in her intercourse with him; and yet he was 
conscious of an unapproachableness in Alice. Often, 
in the old man’s presence, she mingled in the conver¬ 
sation that went on between him and Middleton, and 
with an acuteness that betokened a sphere of thought 
much beyond what could be customary with young 
English maidens; and Middleton was often reminded 
of the theories of those in our own country, who be¬ 
lieve that the amelioration of society depends greatly 
on the part that women shall hereafter take, according 
to their individual capacity, in all the various pursuits 
of life. These deeper thoughts, these higher quali¬ 
ties, surprised him as they showed themselves, when- 
410 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


ever occasion called them forth, under the light, gay, 
and frivolous exterior which she had at first seemed to 
present. Middleton often amused himself with sur¬ 
mises in what rank of life Alice could have been bred, 
being so free of all conventional rule, yet so nice and 
delicate in her perception of the true proprieties that 
she never shocked him. 

One morning, when they had met in one of Mid¬ 
dleton’s rambles about the neighborhood, they began 
to talk of America; and Middleton described to Alice 
the stir that was being made in behalf of women’s 
rights; and he said that whatever cause was generous 
and disinterested always, in that country, derived much 
of its power from the sympathy of women, and that 
the advocates of every such cause were in favor of 
yielding the whole field of human effort to be shared 
with women. 

“ I have been surprised,” said he, “ in the little I 
have seen and heard of Englishwomen, to discover 
what a difference there is between them and my own 
countrywomen.” 

“ I have heard,” said Alice, with a smile, “ that 
your countrywomen are a far more delicate and fragile 
race than Englishwomen; pale, feeble hothouse plants, 
unfit for the wear and tear of life, without energy of 
character, or any slightest degree of physical strength 
to base it upon. If, now, you had these large-framed 
Englishwomen, you might, I should imagine, with 
better hopes, set about changing the system of society, 
so as to allow them to struggle in the strife of politics, 
or any other strife, hand to hand, or side by side with 
men.” 

411 


APPENDIX 


“ If any countryman of mine has said this of our 
women,” exclaimed Middleton indignantly, “ he is a 
slanderous villain, unworthy to have been borne by an 
American mother; if an Englishman has said it, — as 
I know many of them have and do, — let it pass as 
one of the many prejudices, only half believed, with 
which they strive to console themselves for the inevi¬ 
table sense that the American race is destined to higher 
purposes than their own. But pardon me; I forgot 
that I was speaking to an Englishwoman, for indeed 
you do not remind me of them. But, I assure you, 
the world has not seen such women as make up, I 
had almost said the mass of womanhood in my own 
country; slight in aspect, slender in frame, as you 
suggest, but yet capable of bringing forth stalwart 
men; they themselves being of inexhaustible courage, 
patience, energy; soft and tender, deep of heart, but 
high of purpose; gentle, refined, but bold in every 
good cause.” 

“ O, you have said quite enough,” replied Alice, 
who had seemed ready to laugh outright, during this 
encomium. “ I think I see one of these paragons 
now, in a Bloomer, I think you call it, swaggering 
along with a Bowie knife at her girdle, smoking a 
cigar, no doubt, and tippling sherry cobblers and mint 
juleps. It must be a pleasant life.” 

“ I should think you, at least, might form a more 
just idea of what women become,” said Middleton, 
considerably piqued, “ in a country where the rules of 
conventionalism are somewhat relaxed ; where woman, 
whatever you may think, is far more profoundly edu¬ 
cated than in England, where a few ill-taught accom- 
412 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

plishments, a little geography, a catechism of science, 
make up the sum, under the superintendence of a 
governess; the mind being kept entirely inert as to 
any capacity for thought. They are cowards, except 
within certain rules and forms; they spend a life of 
old proprieties, and die, and if their souls do not die 
with them, it is Heaven’s mercy.” 

Alice did not appear in the least moved to anger, 
though considerably to mirth, by this description of 
the character of English females. She laughed as she 
replied, “ I see there is little danger of your leaving 
your heart in England.” She added more seriously: 
“ And permit me to say, I trust, Mr. Middleton, that 
you remain as much American in other respects as in 
your preference of your own race of women. The 
American who comes hither and persuades himself 
that he is one with Englishmen, it seems to me, makes 
a great mistake; at least, if he is correct in such an 
idea, he is not worthy of his own country, and the 
high development that awaits it. There is much that 
is seductive in our life, but I think it is not upon the 
higher impulses of our nature that such seductions 
act. I should think ill of the American who, for any 
causes of ambition, — any hope of wealth or rank,— 
or even for the sake of any of those old, delightful 
ideas of the past, the associations of ancestry, the love¬ 
liness of an age-long home,— the old poetry and ro¬ 
mance that haunt these ancient villages and estates of 
England, — would give up the chance of acting upon 
the unmoulded future of America.” 

“ And you, an Englishwoman, speak thus! ” ex¬ 
claimed Middleton. “ You perhaps speak truly ; and 

413 


APPENDIX 


it may be that your words go to a point where they 
are especially applicable at this moment. But where 
have you learned these ideas ? And how is it that 
you know how to awake these sympathies, that have 
slept perhaps too long ? ” 

“ Think only if what I have said be truth,” replied 
Alice. “ It is no matter who or what I am that 
speak it.” 

“ Do you speak,” asked Middleton, from a sudden 
impulse, “ with any secret knowledge affecting a mat¬ 
ter now in my mind ? ” 

Alice shook her head, as she turned away ; but 
Middleton could not determine whether the gesture 
was meant as a negative to his question, or merely as 
declining to answer it. She left him; and he found 
himself strangely disturbed with thoughts of his own 
country, of the life that he ought to be leading there, 
the struggles in which he ought to be taking part; 
and, with these motives in his impressible mind, the 
motives that had hitherto kept him in England seemed 
unworthy to influence him. 

May i^th^ Saturday, — It was not long after Mid¬ 
dleton’s meeting with Mr. Eldredge in the park of 
SmithelPs, that he received — what it is precisely the 
most common thing to receive — an invitation to dine 
at the manor house and spend the night. The note 
was written with much appearance of cordiality, as 
well as in a respectful style; and Middleton could 
not but perceive that Mr. Eldredge must have been 
making some inquiries as to his social status, in order 
to feel justified in putting him on this footing of 
equality. He had no hesitation in accepting the invi- 
414 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

tation, and on the appointed day was received in the 
old house of his forefathers as a guest. The owner 
met him, not quite on the frank and friendly footing 
expressed in his note, but still with a perfect and pol¬ 
ished courtesy, which, however, could not hide from 
the sensitive Middleton a certain coldness, a something 
that seemed to him Italian rather than English; a 
symbol of a condition of things between them, unde¬ 
cided, suspicious, doubtful very likely. Middleton’s 
own manner corresponded to that of his host, and 
they made few advances towards more intimate ac¬ 
quaintance. Middleton was, however, recompensed 
for his host’s unapproachableness by the society of his 
daughter, a young lady born indeed in Italy, but who 
had been educated in a Catholic family in England; 
so that here was another relation — the first female 
one — to whom he had been introduced. She was a 
quiet, shy, undemonstrative young woman, with a fine 
bloom and other charms which she kept as much in 
the background as possible, with maiden reserve. 
(There is a Catholic priest at table.) 

Mr. Eldredge talked chiefly, during dinner, of art, 
with which his long residence in Italy had made him 
thoroughly acquainted, and for which he seemed to 
have a genuine taste and enjoyment It was a subject 
on which Middleton knew little; but he felt the in¬ 
terest in it which appears to be not uncharacteristic of 
Americans, among the earliest of their developments 
of cultivation ; nor had he failed to use such few op¬ 
portunities as the English public or private galleries 
offered him to acquire the rudiments of a taste. He 
was surprised at the depth of some of Mr. Eldredge’s 

415 


APPENDIX 


remarks on the topics thus brought up, and at the sen¬ 
sibility which appeared to be disclosed by his delicate 
appreciation of some of the excellences of those great 
masters who wrote their epics, their tender sonnets, 
or their simple ballads, upon canvas ; and Middleton 
conceived a respect for him which he had not hitherto 
felt, and which possibly Mr. Eldredge did not quite 
deserve. Taste seems to be a department of moral 
sense; and yet it is so little identical with it, and so 
little implies conscience, that some of the worst men 
in the world have been the most refined. 

After Miss Eldredge had retired, the host appeared 
to desire to make the dinner a little more social than 
it had hitherto been ; he called for a peculiar species 
of wine from Southern Italy, which he said was the 
most delicious production of the grape, and had very 
seldom, if ever before, been imported pure into England. 
A delicious perfume came from the cradled bottle, and 
bore an ethereal, evanescent testimony to the truth of 
what he said; and the taste, though too delicate for 
wine quaffed in England, was nevertheless delicious, 
when minutely dwelt upon. 

“ It gives me pleasure to drink your health, Mr. 
Middleton,” said the host. ‘‘ We might well meet as 
friends in England, for I am hardly more an English¬ 
man than yourself; bred up, as I have been, in Italy, 
and coming back hither at my age, unaccustomed to 
the manners of the country, with few friends, and in¬ 
sulated from society by a faith which makes most peo¬ 
ple regard me as an enemy. I seldom welcome people 
here, Mr. Middleton; but you are welcome.” 

“ I thank you, Mr. Eldredge, and may fairly say 
416 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

that the circumstances to which you allude make me 
accept your hospitality with a warmer feeling than I 
otherwise might. Strangers, meeting in a strange land, 
have a sort of tie in their foreignness to those around 
them, though there be no positive relation between 
themselves.” 

“We are friends, then ? ” said Mr. Eldredge, look¬ 
ing keenly at Middleton, as if to discover exactly how 
much was meant by the compact. He continued: “You 
know, I suppose, Mr. Middleton, the situation in which 
I find myself on returning to my hereditary estate, 
which has devolved to me somewhat unexpectedly by 
the death of a younger man than myself. There is 
an old flaw here, as perhaps you have been told, which 
keeps me out of a property long kept in the guardian¬ 
ship of the crown, and of a barony, one of the oldest in 
England. There is an idea — a tradition — a legend, 
founded, however, on evidence of some weight, that 
there is still in existence the possibility of finding the 
proof which we need, to confirm our cause.” 

“ I am most happy to hear it, Mr. Eldredge,” said 
Middleton. 

“ But,” continued his host, “ I am bound to remem¬ 
ber and to consider that for several generations there 
seems to have been the same idea, and the same ex¬ 
pectation ; whereas nothing has ever come of it. Now, 
among other suppositions — perhaps wild ones — it 
has occurred to me that this testimony, the desirable 
proof, may exist on your side of the Atlantic; for it 
has long enough been sought here in vain.” 

“ As I said in our meeting in your park, Mr. El¬ 
dredge,” replied Middleton, “ such a suggestion may 

417 


APPENDIX 


very possibly be true; yet let me point out that the 
long lapse of years, and the continual melting and dis¬ 
solving of family institutions, — the consequent scat¬ 
tering of family documents, and the annihilation of 
traditions from memory, — all conspire against its 
probability.” 

“ And yet, Mr. Middleton,” said his host, “ when 
we talked together at our first singular interview, you 
made use of an expression — of one remarkable phrase 
— which dwelt upon my memory and now recurs 
to it.” 

“ And what was that, Mr. Eldredge ? ” asked Mid¬ 
dleton. 

“ You spoke,” replied his host,“ of the Bloody Foot¬ 
step reappearing on the threshold of the old palace of 

S-. Now where, let me ask you, did you ever 

hear this strange name, which you then spoke, and 
which I have since spoken ? ” 

“ From my father’s lips, when a child, in America,” 
responded Middleton. 

‘‘ It is very strange,” said Mr. Eldredge, in a hasty, 
dissatisfied tone. “ I do not see my way through this.” 

May i6th^ Sunday, — Middleton had been put into 
.a chamber in the oldest part of the house, the furniture 
of which was of antique splendor, well befitting to have 
come down for ages, well befitting the hospitality shown 
to noble and even royal guests. It was the same room 
in which, at his first visit to the house, Middleton’s 
attention had been drawn to the cabinet, which he had 
subsequently remembered as the palatial residence in 
which he had harbored so many dreams. It still stood 
in. the chamber, making the principal object in it, in- 
418 



THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

deed; and when Middleton was left alone, he con¬ 
templated it not without a certain awe, which at the 
same time he felt to be ridiculous. He advanced 
towards it, and stood contemplating the mimic facade, 
wondering at the singular fact of this piece of furniture 
having been preserved in traditionary history, when so 
much had been forgotten, — when even the features 
and architectural characteristics of the mansion in which 
it was merely a piece of furniture had been forgotten. 
And, as he gazed at it, he half thought himself an actor 
in a fairy portal [tale ?] ; and would not have been 
surprised — at least, he would have taken it with the 
composure of a dream — if the mimic portal had un¬ 
closed, and a form of pigmy majesty had appeared 
within, beckoning him to enter and find the revelation 
of what had so long perplexed him. The key of the 
cabinet was in the lock, and knowing that it was not 
now the receptacle of anything in the shape of family 
papers, he threw it open ; and there appeared the mosaic 
floor, the representation of a stately, pillared hall, with 
the doors on either side, opening, as would seem, into 
various apartments. And here should have stood the 
visionary figures of his ancestry, waiting to welcome 
the descendant of their race, who had so long delayed 
his coming. After looking and musing a considerable 
time, — even till the old clock from the turret of the 
house told twelve, — he turned away with a sigh, and 
went to bed. The wind moaned through the an¬ 
cestral trees; the old house creaked as with ghostly 
footsteps; the curtains of his bed seemed to waver. 
He was now at home; yes, he had found his home, and 
was sheltered at last under the ancestral roof after all 
419 


APPENDIX 


those long, long wanderings, — after the little log- 
built hut of the early settlement, after the straight roof 
of the American house, after all the many roofs of two 
hundred years, here he was at last under the one which 
he had left, on that fatal night, when the Bloody Foot¬ 
step was so mysteriously impressed on the threshold. 
As he drew nearer and nearer towards sleep, it seemed 
more and more to him as if he were the very individual 
— the selfsame one throughout the whole — who had 
done, seen, suffered, all these long toils and vicissitudes, 
and were now come back to rest, and found his weari¬ 
ness so great that there could be no rest. 

Nevertheless, he did sleep; and it may be that his 
dreams went on, and grew vivid, and perhaps became 
truer in proportion to their vividness. When he awoke 
he had a perception, an intuition, that he had been 
dreaming about the cabinet, which, in his sleeping im¬ 
agination, had again assumed the magnitude and pro¬ 
portions of a stately mansion, even as he had seen it 
afar from the other side of the Atlantic. Some dim as¬ 
sociations remained lingering behind, the dying shadows 
of very vivid ones which had just filled his mind; but 
as he looked at the cabinet, there was some idea that 
still seemed to come so near his consciousness that, 
every moment, he felt on the point of grasping it. 
During the process of dressing, he still kept his eyes 
turned involuntarily towards the cabinet, and at last he 
approached it, and looked within the mimic portal, still 
endeavoring to recollect what it was that he had heard 
or dreamed about it, — what half-obliterated remem¬ 
brance from childhood, what fragmentary last night’s 
dream it was, that thus haunted him. It must have 
420 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


been some association of one or the other nature that 
led him to press his finger on one particular square of 
the mosaic pavement; and as he did so, the thin plate 
of polished marble slipt aside. It disclosed, indeed, no 
hollow receptacle, but only another leaf of marble, in 
the midst of which appeared to be a keyhole : to this 
Middleton applied the little antique key to which we 
have several times alluded, and found it fit precisely. 
The instant it was turned, the whole mimic floor of 
the hall rose, by the action of a secret spring, and dis¬ 
covered a shallow recess beneath. Middleton looked 
eagerly in, and saw that it contained documents, with 
antique seals of wax appended ; he took but one glance 
at them, and closed the receptacle as it was before. 

Why did he do so ? He felt that there would be a 
meanness and wrong in inspecting these family papers, 
coming to the knowledge of them, as he had, through 
the opportunities offered by the hospitality of the owner 
of the estate ; nor, on the other hand, did he feel such 
confidence in his host as to make him willing to trust 
these papers in his hands, with any certainty that they 
would be put to an honorable use. The case was one 
demanding consideration, and he put a strong curb 
upon his impatient curiosity, conscious that, at all 
events, his first impulsive feeling was that he ought 
not to examine these papers without the presence of 
his host or some other authorized witness. Had he 
exercised any casuistry about the point, however, he 
might have argued that these papers, according to all 
appearance, dated from a period to which his own 
hereditary claims ascended, and to circumstances in 
which his own rightful interest was as strong as that 
421 


APPENDIX 


of Mr. Eldredge. But he had acted on his first im¬ 
pulse, closed the secret receptacle, and hastening his 
toilet descended from his room ; and, it being still too 
early for breakfast, resolved to ramble about the im¬ 
mediate vicinity of the house. As he passed the little 
chapel, he heard within the voice of the priest per¬ 
forming mass, and felt how strange was this sign of 
mediaeval religion and foreign manners in homely 
England. 

As the story looks now : Eldredge, bred, and per¬ 
haps born, in Italy, and a Catholic, with views to the 
church before he inherited the estate, has not the Eng¬ 
lish moral sense and simple honor; can scarcely be 
called an Englishman at all. Dark suspicions of past 
crime, and of the possibility of future crime, may be 
thrown around him ; an atmosphere of doubt shall 
envelop him, though, as regards manners, he may be 
highly refined. Middleton shall find in the house a 
priest; and at his first visit he shall have seen a small 
chapel, adorned with the richness, as to marbles, pic¬ 
tures, and frescoes, of those that we see in the 
churches at Rome ; and here the Catholic forms of 
worship shall be kept up. Eldredge shall have had an 
Italian mother, and shall have the personal character¬ 
istics of an Italian. There shall be something sinis¬ 
ter about hini, the more apparent when Middleton’s 
visit draws to a conclusion ; and the latter shall feel 
convinced that they part in enmity, so far as Eldredge 
is concerned. He shall not speak of his discovery in 
the cabinet. 

May IMonday. — Unquestionably, the appoint¬ 
ment of Middleton as minister to one of the minor 
422 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

Continental courts must take place in the interval 
between Eldredge's meeting him in the park and his 
inviting him to his house. After Middleton’s appoint¬ 
ment, the two encounter each other at the Mayor’s 
dinner in St. Mary’s Hall, and Eldredge, startled at 
meeting the vagrant, as he deemed him, under such a 
character, remembers the hints of some secret know¬ 
ledge of the family history, which Middleton had 
thrown out. He endeavors, both in person and by 
the priest, to make out what Middleton really is, and 
what he knows, and what he intends; but Middleton 
is on his guard, yet cannot help arousing Eldredge’s 
suspicions that he has views upon the estate and title. 
It is possible, too, that Middleton may have come to 
the knowledge — may have had some knowledge — 
of some shameful or criminal fact connected with 
Mr. Eldredge’s life on the Continent; the old Hos¬ 
pitaller, possibly, may have told him this, from some 
secret malignity hereafter to be accounted for. Sup¬ 
posing Eldredge to attempt his murder, by poison for 
instance, bringing back into modern life his old he¬ 
reditary Italian plots; and into English life a sort of 
crime which does not belong to it, — which did not, 
at least, although at this very period there have been 
fresh and numerous instances of it. There might be 
a scene in which Middleton and Eldredge come to a 
fierce and bitter explanation ; for in Eldredge’s char¬ 
acter there must be the English surly boldness as well 
as the Italian subtlety ; and here, Middleton shall tell 
him what he knows of his past character and life, and 
also what he knows of his own hereditary claims. 
Eldredge might have committed a murder in Italy; 

423 


APPENDIX 


might have been a patriot, and betrayed his friends to 
death for a bribe, bearing another name than his own 
in Italy; indeed, he might have joined them only as 
an informer. All this he had tried to sink, when he 
came to England in the character of a gentleman of 
ancient name and large estate. But this infamy of 
his previous character must be foreboded from the 
first by the manner in which Eldredge is introduced ; 
and it must make his evil designs on Middleton appear 
natural and probable. It may be that Middleton has 
learned Eldredge’s previous character, through some 
Italian patriot who had taken refuge in America, and 
there become intimate with him; and it should be a 
piece of secret history, not known to the world in 
general, so that Middleton might seem to Eldredge 
the sole depositary of the secret then in England. He 
feels a necessity of getting rid of him ; and thence¬ 
forth Middleton’s path lies always among pitfalls; in¬ 
deed, the first attempt should follow promptly and 
immediately on his rupture with Eldredge. The ut¬ 
most pains must be taken with this incident to give it 
an air of reality ; or else it must be quite removed 
out of the sphere of reality by an intensified atmo¬ 
sphere of romance. I think the old Hospitaller must 
interfere to prevent the success of this attempt, per¬ 
haps through the means of Alice. 

The result of Eldredge’s criminal and treacherous 
designs is, somehow or other, that he comes to his 
death ; and Middleton and Alice are left to administer 
on the remains of the story ; perhaps, the Mayor 
being his friend, he may be brought into play here. 
The foreign ecclesiastic shall likewise come forward, 
424 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

and he shall prove to be a man of subtile policy, per¬ 
haps, yet a man of religion and honor; with a Jesuit’s 
principles, but a Jesuit’s devotion and self-sacrifice. 
The old Hospitaller must die in his bed, or some other 
how ; or perhaps not — we shall see. He may just 
as well be left in the Hospital. Eldredge’s attempt 
on Middleton must be in some way peculiar to Italy, 
and which he shall have learned there ; and, by the 
way, at his dinner table there shall be a Venice glass, 
one of the kind that were supposed to be shattered 
when poison was put into them. When Eldredge 
produces his rare wine, he shall pour it into this, with 
a jesting allusion to the legend. Perhaps the mode 
of Eldredge’s attempt on Middleton’s life shall be a 
reproduction of the attempt made two hundred years 
before; and Middleton’s knowledge of that incident 
shall be the means of his salvation. That would be 
a good idea ; in fact, I think it must be done so, and 
no otherwise. It is not to be forgotten that there is 
a taint of insanity in Eldredge’s blood, accounting for 
much that is wild and absurd, at the same time that it 
must be subtile, in his conduct; one of those perplex¬ 
ing mad people, whose lunacy you are continually 
mistaking for wickedness, or vice versa. This shall 
be the priest’s explanation and apology for him, after 
his death. I wish I could get hold of the Newgate 
Calendar, the older volumes, or any other book of 
murders, — the Causes Celebres, for instance. The 
legendary murder, or attempt at it, will bring its own 
imaginative probability with it, when repeated by El¬ 
dredge ; and at the same time it will have a dreamlike 
effect; so that Middleton shall hardly know whether 

425 


APPENDIX 


he is awake or not. This incident is very essential 
towards bringing together the past time and the pre¬ 
sent, and the two ends of the story. 

May i8th^ Tuesday, — All down through the ages 
since Edward had disappeared from home, leaving that 
bloody footstep on the threshold, there had been le¬ 
gends and strange stories of the murder and the man¬ 
ner of it. These legends differed very much among 
themselves. According to some, his brother had 
awaited him there, and stabbed him on the threshold. 
According to others, he had been murdered in his 
chamber, and dragged out. A third story told, that 
he was escaping with his lady love, when they were 
overtaken on the threshold, and the young man slain. 
It was impossible at this distance of time to ascertain 
which of these legends was the true one, or whether 
either of them had any portion of truth, further than 
that the young man had actually disappeared from that 
night, and that it never was certainly known to the 
public that any intelligence had ever afterwards been 
received from him. Now, Middleton may have com¬ 
municated to Eldredge the truth in regard to the mat¬ 
ter ; as, for instance, that he had stabbed him with a 
certain dagger that was still kept among the curiosities 
of the manor house. Of course, that will not do. It 
must be some very ingenious and artificially natural 
thing, an artistic affair in its way, that should strike 
the fancy of such a man as Eldredge, and appear to 
him altogether fit, mutatis mutandis, to be applied to 
his own requirements and purposes. I do not at pre¬ 
sent see in the least how this is to be wrought out. 
There shall be everything to make Eldredge look with 
426 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

the utmost horror and alarm at any chance that he 
may be superseded and ousted from his possession of 
the estate; for he shall only recently have established 
his claim to it, tracing out his pedigree, when the 
family was supposed to be extinct. And he is come 
to these comfortable quarters after a life of poverty, 
uncertainty, difficulty, hanging loose on society j and 
therefore he shall be willing to risk soul and body 
both, rather than return to his former state. Perhaps 
his daughter shall be introduced as a young Italian 
girl, to whom Middleton shall decide to leave the 
estate. 

On the failure of his design, Eldredge may commit 
suicide, and be found dead in the wood; at any rate, 
some suitable end shall be contrived, adapted to his 
wants. This character must not be so represented as 
to shut him out completely from the reader’s sympa¬ 
thies ; he shall have taste, sentiment, even a capacity 
for affection, nor, I think, ought he to have any hatred 
or bitter feeling against the man whom he resolves to 
murder. In the closing scenes, when he thinks the 
fate of Middleton approaching, there might even be a 
certain tenderness towards him, a desire to make the 
last drops of life delightful; if well done, this would 
produce a certain sort of horror, that I do not remem¬ 
ber to have seen effected in literature. Possibly the 
ancient emigrant might be supposed to have fallen into 
an ancient mine, down a precipice, into some pitfall; 
no, not so. Into a river; into a moat. As Middle¬ 
ton’s pretensions to birth are not publicly known, 
there will be no reason why, at his sudden death, sus¬ 
picion should fix on Eldredge as the murderer j and it 
427 


APPENDIX 


shall be his object so to contrive his death as that it 
shall appear the result of accident. Having failed in 
effecting Middleton’s death by this excellent way, he 
shall perhaps think that he cannot do better than to 
make his own exit in precisely the same manner. It 
might be easy, and as delightful as any death could be; 
no ugliness in it, no blood ; for the Bloody Footstep 
of old times might be the result of the failure of the 
old plot, not of its success. Poison seems to be the 
only elegant method ; but poison is vulgar, and in 
many respects unfit for my purpose. It won’t do. 
Whatever it may be, it must not come upon the reader 
as a sudden and new thing, but as one that might have 
been foreseen from afar, though he shall not actually 
have foreseen it until it is about to happen. It must 
be prevented through the agency of Alice. Alice may 
have been an artist in Rome, and there have known 
Eldredge and his daughter, and thus she may have be¬ 
come their guest in England ; or he may be patroniz¬ 
ing her now — at all events she shall be the friend of 
the daughter, and shall have a just appreciation of the 
father’s character. It shall be partly due to her high 
counsel that Middleton foregoes his claim to the es¬ 
tate, and prefers the life of an American, with its lofty 
possibilities for himself and his race, to the position 
of an Englishman of property and title; and she, for 
her part, shall choose the condition and prospects of 
woman in America, to the emptiness of the life of a 
woman of rank in England. So they shall depart, 
lofty and poor, out of the home which might be their 
own, if they would stoop to make it so. Possibly the 
daughter of Eldredge may be a girl not yet in her 
428 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

teens, for whom Alice has the affection of an elder 
sister. 

It should be a very carefully and highly wrought 
scene, occurring just before Eldredge’s actual attempt 
on Middleton’s life, in which all the brilliancy of his 
character — which shall before have gleamed upon the 
reader — shall come out, with pathos, with wit, with 
insight, with knowledge of life. Middleton shall be 
inspired by this, and shall vie with him in exhilaration 
of spirits; but the ecclesiastic shall look on with singu¬ 
lar attention, and some appearance of alarm ; and the 
suspicion of Alice shall likewise be aroused. The old 
Hospitaller may have gained his situation partly by 
proving himself a man of the neighborhood, by right 
of descent; so that he, too, shall have a hereditary 
claim to be in the Romance. 

Eldredge’s own position as a foreigner in the midst 
of English home life, insulated and dreary, shall re¬ 
present to Middleton, in some degree, what his own 
would be, were he to accept the estate. But Middle- 
ton shall not come to the decision to resign it, without 
having to repress a deep yearning for that sense of 
long, long rest in an age-consecrated home, which he 
had felt so deeply to be the happy lot of Englishmen. 
But this ought to be rejected, as not belonging to his 
country, nor to the age, nor any longer possible. 

May i<yth^ Wednesday, — The connection of the 
old Hospitaller with the story is not at all clear. He 
is an American by birth, but deriving his English ori¬ 
gin from the neighborhood of the Hospital, where he 
has finally established himself. Some one of his an¬ 
cestors may have been somehow connected with the 
429 


APPENDIX 


ancient portion of the story. He has been a friend 
of Middleton’s father, who reposed entire confidence 
in him, trusting him with all his fortune, which the 
Hospitaller risked in his enormous speculations, and 
lost it all. His fame had been great in the financial 
world. There were circumstances that made it dan¬ 
gerous for his whereabouts to be known, and so he 
had come hither and found refuge in this institution, 
where Middleton finds him, but does not know who 
he is. In the vacancy of a mind formerly so active, 
he has taken to the study of local antiquities ; and 
from his former intimacy with Middleton’s father, he 
has a knowledge of the American part of the story, 
which he connects with the English portion, disclosed 
by his researches here j so that he is quite aware that 
Middleton has claims to the estate, which might be 
urged successfully against the present possessor. He 
is kindly disposed towards the son of his friend, whom 
he had so greatly injured ; but he is now very old, 

and-. Middleton has been directed to this old 

man by a friend in America, as one likely to afford 
him all possible assistance in his researches; and so 
he seeks him out and forms an acquaintance with him, 
which the old man encourages to a certain extent, 
taking an evident interest in him, but does not dis¬ 
close himself; nor does Middleton suspect him to be 
an American. The characteristic life of the Hos¬ 
pital is brought out, and the individual character of 
this old man, vegetating here after an active career, 
melancholy and miserable ; sometimes torpid with the 
slow approach of utmost age; sometimes feeble, pee¬ 
vish, wavering; sometimes shining out with a wisdom 

430 



THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 


resulting from originally bright faculties, ripened by 
experience. The character must not be allowed to 
get vague, but, with gleams of romance, must yet be 
kept homely and natural by little touches of his daily 
life. 

As for Alice, I see no necessity for her being any¬ 
wise related to or connected with the old Hospitaller. 
As originally conceived, I think she may be an artist 
— a sculptress — whom Eldredge had known in Rome. 
No; she might be a granddaughter of the old Hospi¬ 
taller, born and bred in America, but who had resided 
two or three years in Rome in the study of her art, and 
have there acquired a knowledge of the Eldredges and 
have become fond of the little Italian girl his daughter. 
She has lodgings in the village, and of course is often 
at the Hospital, and often at the Hall; she makes busts 
and little statues, and is free, wild, tender, proud, do¬ 
mestic, strange, natural, artistic, and has at bottom 
the characteristics of the American woman, with the 
principles of the strong-minded sect; and Middleton 
shall be continually puzzled at meeting such a phe¬ 
nomenon in England. By and by, the internal influ¬ 
ence [evidence ?] of her sentiments (though there shall 
be nothing to confirm it in her manner) shall lead him 
to charge her with being an American. 

Now, as to the arrangement of the Romance;— it 
begins as an integral and essential part, with my intro¬ 
duction, giving a pleasant and familiar summary of my 
life in the Consulate at Liverpool; the strange species 
of Americans, with strange purposes, in England, whom 
I used to meet there; and, especially, how my country¬ 
men used to be put out of their senses by the idea of 

431 


APPENDIX 


inheritances of English property. Then I shall par¬ 
ticularly instance one gentleman who called on me on 
first coming over; a description of him must be given, 
with touches that shall puzzle the reader to decide 
whether it is not an actual portrait. And then this 
Romance shall be offered, half seriously, as the account 
of the fortunes that he met with in his search for his 
hereditary home. Enough of his ancestral story may 
be given to explain what is to follow in the Romance; 
or perhaps this may be left to the scenes of his inter¬ 
course with the old Hospitaller. 

The Romance proper opens with Middleton’s ar¬ 
rival at what he has reason to think is the neighborhood 
of his ancestral home, and here he makes application 
to the old Hospitaller. Middleton shall be described 
as approaching the Hospital, which shall be pretty 
literally copied after Leicester’s, although the surround¬ 
ing village must be on a much smaller scale, of course. 
Much elaborateness may be given to this portion of the 
book. Middleton shall have assumed a plain dress, 
and shall seek to make no acquaintances except that 
of the old Hospitaller; the acquaintance of Alice natu¬ 
rally following. The old Hospitaller and he go together 
to the old Hall, where, as they pass through the rooms, 
they find that the proprietor is flitting like a ghost be¬ 
fore them from chamber to chamber; they catch his 
reflection in a glass, etc., etc. When these have been 
wrought up sufficiently, shall come the scene in the 
wood, where Eldredge is seen yielding to the super¬ 
stition that he has inherited, respecting the old secret 
of the family, on the discovery of which depends the 
enforcement of his claim to a title. All this while, 

432 


THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 

Middleton has appeared in the character of a man of 
no note; and now, through some political change, not 
necessarily told, he receives a packet addressed to him 
as an ambassador, and containing a notice of his ap¬ 
pointment to that dignity. A paragraph in the Times 
confirms the fact, and makes it known in the neighbor¬ 
hood. Middleton immediately becomes an object of 
attention: the gentry call upon him; the Mayor of 
the neighboring county town invites him to dinner, 
which shall be described with all its antique formal¬ 
ities. Here he meets Eldredge, who is surprised, re¬ 
membering the encounter in the wood; but passes it 
all off, like a man of the world, makes his acquaint¬ 
ance, and invites him to the Hall. Perhaps he may 
make a visit of some time here, and become intimate, 
to a certain degree, with all parties ; and here things 
shall ripen themselves for Eldredge's attempt upon his 
life. 


433 


EhctrotyPed and printed by H. O. Houghton Co. 
Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 





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